


There and Back and There Again

by WoodAshAndOliveOil



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Bilbo is So Done, Fix-It, Fíli and Kíli Are Little Shits, M/M, Slow Burn, Thorin is a Softie, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 56,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24992785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoodAshAndOliveOil/pseuds/WoodAshAndOliveOil
Summary: "I must say, I am rather pleased that you remember me,” said Gandalf.“I never forget a face,” Bilbo joked, still entirely at ease. After several moment of silence, Bilbo opened his eyes to find Gandalf eyeing him quizzically. “Is something the matter?” he asked with a hint of annoyance. Why is it that he had not been dead for five minutes and this damned wizard was already causing a fuss.“That remains to be seen. I am looking for someone to share in an adventure.”“My dear friend, I am much too old now for adventures," Bilbo said with a laugh.OR:Yet another Time Travel fic in which Bilbo is very sad and a bit of a dick.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 117
Kudos: 379





	1. A Long Forgotten Party

**Author's Note:**

> So a quick little disclaimer, I have taken aspects of both the book, and the movies and have kind of made it my own. I wanted to mirror canon, while still making it interesting and new. I also wanted to include a lot more of the rest of the Company, as I felt that that was something severely lacking in both the books and the movies. 
> 
> I do have most of this planned out or written as a draft, but if anyone has any thoughts, suggestions, or things they would like to see in this, I am always super happy to hear from people!
> 
> (Also I definitely struggled with formatting on this website, so if something looks weird, it's just me being confused.)

Bilbo Baggins felt so very old. His skin clung heavily to his bones, worn and leathery, weighing him down. His eyes were clouded over, eyelids slow. Even his bones felt brittle. With every movement they threatened to splinter and snap. He hadn’t always been like this. In fact, he had evaded old age for much longer than your average hobbit, due in part to an old trinket of his. The One Ring. Ever since his nephew, Frodo, had taken that particular burden, the years had piled on gracelessly, leaving him stumbling and confused. He had struggled and cursed his new limitations, but nothing would take them back. His body finally matched the age and frailty of his soul. Bilbo was not used to being helpless though, and a quiet rage had struck up in his chest. It flickered anew, reminding him of days long past. Days filled with orcs and dragons and gold.

  
His wrinkled and withered hand was clutched tightly in Frodo’s sweaty grip. He tried to squeeze back, but his fingers wouldn’t quite cooperate. He knew that what he was feeling now, was something entirely different to old age. These problems would not be bothering him for much longer. He felt at peace. Finally. He turned his gaze to his oldest friend, Gandalf. The wizard’s eyes were sad, but something in them twinkled even still. He vaguely recalled the same look on the wizard’s face many years past, speaking words of wisdom that had long been lost to Bilbo’s mind. Where had that been again? Oh yes, at the funeral.

_“Take heart, Bilbo Baggins, for death is merely the next great adventure, and something tells me you will meet again, although not so in this lifetime.”_

Images of long dark hair and warm blue eyes swam blurrily through his mind. The ghost of an approving smile, a hum of laughter. He couldn’t quite recall who this person was, but the warmth and simultaneous pain these memories gave him made his heart contract, a feeling that he felt throughout his whole body. His pulse was weak, and the swell of emotion felt like electricity running through his veins. Slowly, the feeling changed, and a numbness swept through him. It was almost pleasant. A relief.

  
Above him, Frodo’s eyes shone with tears, the blue so different to the ones that haunted his weary mind. He smiled at Frodo as best as he could. Bilbo would be fine, and so would Frodo. This was death, he thought. It was not slow, it was not painful, nor was it scary. He simply let go.

* * *

Bilbo’s eyes fluttered, fighting a losing battle against the light, his eyes swimming with tears. As his vision cleared, Bilbo found himself sitting on his little wooden bench outside Bag End, pipe in hand. He was looking out over the Shire, on a bright, clear day. It was entirely unchanged, he remarked without surprise. The rolling hills were a shock of emerald green, the fields alive with wildflowers and small children hiding in the tall grass. The sun was shining hot against Bilbo’s skin, leaving it warm and tickled, a light breeze tousling his hair.

  
Bilbo quickly came to realize that something was amiss. His eyes and ears were sharp, his joints no longer ached, and his bones were strong. A rather pleasant side effect to being dead, he supposed. He hummed contentedly and looked around him, swinging his legs experimentally. After a moment of thought, he frowned. This was not what he had expected from death. He hadn’t been sure that there would be anything after life at all, but he had most certainly not thought to end up back in the peaceful, yet suffocating halls of Bag End. Admittedly, there were not many places he would have thought to end up, with precious little that he still held dear. Perhaps, a field of flowers. A warm forest clearing. Somewhere he could lay still, and be at peace. No, he had not expected his eternal resting place to be Bag End, one he thought he had seen quite enough of, thank you very much. Nevertheless, Bilbo decided that there were quite a few places that would be worse, and if this _was_ it, death would not be so bad, if a little predictable. He took a puff of his pipe and sent a shaky circle out into the cool spring air. _That_ , he thought to himself, _will need some improvement_. His old lungs had not been able to handle such hobbies later in his life. He was not without time for improvement now, that much was sure.

  
A shadow fell upon his face and Bilbo looked up into the creased eyes of Gandalf the Grey. And grey he was. His long hair and beard matched his flowing robes, but his wide brimmed, pointed hat matched his crinkled blue eyes. His face had remained unchanged for the eighty years that Bilbo had known him, although he thought he could recall Gandalf the White, being the title the wizard had recently adopted. No matter, Gandalf was Gandalf, there was no point arguing it. Bilbo had long since learned not to question the wizard.

  
“I should have known you’d be here,” Bilbo said, closing his eyes contentedly. He might’ve guessed that even in death, he could not escape the searching eyes and meddlesome ways of the wizard. If his eternal resting place was Bag End, an unexpected, yet not unwelcome option, he was unsurprised to see his old, slightly troublesome friend. Bilbo did not see the wizard’s eyes narrow.

  
“Well, I must say, I am rather pleased that you remember me,” said the wizard.

  
“I never forget a face,” Bilbo joked, still entirely at ease. After several beats of silence, Bilbo opened his eyes to find Gandalf eyeing him quizzically. “Is something the matter,” he asked with a hint of annoyance. Why is it that he had not been dead for five minutes, and this damned wizard was already causing a fuss.

  
“That remains to be seen. I am looking for someone to share in an adventure.”

  
Bilbo let out a laugh. “My dear friend, I am much too old now for adventures.”

  
“Indeed,” said the wizard, after a pause, looking down at Bilbo with an unmistakably searching look. “Well, this will certainly do you some good. I shall inform the others.”

  
“Wha- Gandalf,” Bilbo said, standing up with an indignant huff, pipe laying forgotten on the bench. Gandalf was already turning away. He thought he heard the old wizard chuckle.

  
“Too old indeed,” Gandalf muttered under his breath, shaking his head incredulously.

  
Bilbo stood stock still, staring after the wizard, mouth agape, eyebrows drawn. He couldn’t ignore the feeling of familiarity of the conversation he had just had. In fact, his mind was clearer than he had remembered it feeling in years, and he knew for a fact that that conversation had mirrored another from eighty years ago perfectly.

  
Was he reliving certain moments of his past? Is that how death worked? Could he be living his greatest moments of regret? For he did think upon the day he had been forcibly signed on to an adventure with regret indeed. Nothing good had come from his trip to the Lonely Mountain whatsoever. The only thing he had gained was empty halls, far too much treasure than an old hobbit had need for, and a ring of power that had destroyed both himself, and his beloved nephew. Yes, Bilbo refused to think of any good that he had experienced in the company of Thorin Oakenshield, because if he thought of the good, he would be lost, and that was something he had resolved to never be again.

  
Head swimming, Bilbo scurried into Bag End, slamming the door behind him. _Well this is not very restful_ , he thought bitterly. He made his way into the kitchen, thinking that some cake and a drink might calm him down after such an excitement. Busying himself in the kitchen, he did not hear the faint scratching on his front door. He might not have even known what it meant anymore. Gone were the days of the young, rather stuffy but respectable hobbit, who took a fright at anything out of the ordinary, yet held a deep seated, rather Tookish desire to do something unexpected. Bilbo was old now. Was _still_ old. He may no longer feel it in his body, but he felt a precious little difference in his soul.

  
As Bilbo ate, he ambled down his halls, taking in the appearance of his home with a hint of confusion. Something was not quite right. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he knew that something had changed. Things were neat. More neat than he remembered leaving them. And there were things missing. He couldn't pick out one thing, but there were spaces that were empty, that he was quite sure shouldn’t be. Oh, what did it matter? He was quite dead, so what if he was missing a couple of baubles?

  
With a start, Bilbo realized he had forgotten his pipe on the bench and made his way back outside, once again relishing the warm caress of sunlight. He froze, turning back to face his home. There on his crisp, green door, was a crude symbol etched right into the middle. He felt his blood boil. What kind of game was Gandalf playing? Was he sitting somewhere, smoking his superior smoke rings and chortling to himself about poor, excitable old Bilbo?

  
Bilbo launched himself down the hill, not paying attention much to his surroundings. Indeed, he barely even took a moment to appreciate how much better his body was working, now that he was of the “dearly departed”. His eyes scanned keenly for the tall wizard (for he couldn’t have gone far), wanting to ask him just what the big idea was, playing cruel tricks such as this. He stomped around, in such a fuss that he knocked right into someone.

  
“Beg your pardon,” he said tersely, barely acknowledging the outraged huff.

  
“Bilbo Baggins, whatever has gotten into you?” came the shrill rebuke. Bilbo froze. He knew that voice, and would have been happy to never hear it again, if he had his way, which he never seemed to.

  
“Lobelia,” he said, as politely as he could muster, though his teeth were bared and his long underused battle instincts were flaring up. He felt his fingers twitch towards his pocket and gave himself a shake. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had been a thorn in his side since the very day they first met. She was of the jealous sort, and had spent much time trying to pry all manners of possessions from him. She would have seized Bag End, if she had had the means. She had come quite close once, too, but Bilbo had put a stop to that, thank you very much. He always miraculously seemed to thwart her, a fact that did not endear him to her in the slightest. But whatever was she doing here, in _his_ afterlife? Stomach sinking like a stone, Bilbo realized that if Lobelia was here, this could mean nothing good for his soul. Whatever reason for her being here was punishment.

  
With one more look at what he could safely say was his least favourite hobbit he had ever had the misfortune to come across, Bilbo took off at a near run, brain whirring through every misdeed he had ever performed in his sorry life for him to end up in such a situation. He had been no saint. He had lied, he had cheated, theived, betrayed, and he had been a downright coward to boot. _It’s no wonder I’m being punished,_ he thought to himself miserably as he finally made it back to his hobbit hole. He ran his hands down his face, and was surprised at the sensation of soft skin coming into contact with soft skin. He brought them in front of him, curiosity getting the better of him at the odd, alien sensation. His hands no longer bore the marks of old age. His wrinkles seemed to have smoothed themselves out overnight. The little scars that had decorated his arms like ink on a fresh page had vanished. His skin was no longer browned and leathery from years of summer sun. With trepidation, Bilbo made his way to the bathroom, and gazed at his reflection in the mirror. He knew instantly that this Bilbo was not one that he had been for a long time. This was a Bilbo that he barely recognized.

  
_This_ Bilbo had mysteriously disappeared one morning. Run off with a band of dwarves, and never come back. This Bilbo’s shoulders were not hunched in on themselves with grief and the invisible weight of a magic ring. This Bilbo’s face was not yet set in a perpetual frown, lacking the barest hint of the heavy frown lines that had graced his mouth and forehead for so long that he had forgotten what he looked like without them. His skin was smooth and unblemished, young and supple. The only thing that Bilbo knew to be his own were his eyes. They showed him for who he was. A coward, who would rather run from his problems than face them head on. Who would leave arguably the greatest burden in their world to his young nephew without a second thought. He was the sort of hobbit who no longer expected the best in people, who no longer fought for others. He had seen death, and he had turned away from it. He was old. Jaded.

  
With a shuddering breath Bilbo turned away from the mirror, his stomach clenching. He made his way to his sitting room, in a trance, and lowered himself to the ground in front of his empty hearth. _Gandalf_. His hands shook. Gandalf had said he would inform the company. Did he mean- _No, Bilbo,_ he told himself sternly _. You are dead. Wherever you are, they are not here. That is not possible and you know it. No matter how much you hope, no matter what impossible situations you dream up, they are not coming._ But the conversation had seemed remarkably similar to the one that the two had shared what felt like a lifetime ago. There was no denying it. There was no explaining it away. What if the company was coming? _You silly old fool, you know what happens when you get your hopes up._

  
And Bilbo did know. He used to be brimming with hope. It was how he had survived years alone in his deceased parent’s house, haunted by their ghosts, and it was how he had survived a perilous, and seemingly endless journey across Middle Earth. Hope was what drove him to so many extremes, what made him capable of saving his friends with a courage he hadn’t known he had possessed. The things he had seen, the perils he had faced had been done with an unshakeable resolve that no matter how bad things were, they would turn out fine. And he had almost gotten away with believing it too.

  
But then he had held out hope as his dearest friend took his last shuddering breaths. As his heart came to a dead stop. Bilbo had hoped that they wouldn’t find two young dwarves among the countless dead, when they should have been so full of life. He had hoped to find solace, peace in his painfully bare home, haunted by friends who had only seen its halls once. And despite himself, he had hoped that poor Frodo would be able to destroy the ring and return to him whole. Yes, Bilbo now had much better sense than to hope, for where had that gotten him? For all intents and purposes, Bilbo had been alone for most of his life. A lost hobbit in an empty home.

  
There were nights long past, spent sleeping under the sky where Bilbo had dreamed of a new home. He had even hoped that Erebor might be that place. But then everything had gone ahead and gone to hell, and Bilbo had not been able to see a home in the broken ruins of a kingdom, led by one who was not his king. He would not see Dain on the throne, when it should have been another. _Fool_ , Bilbo thought sourly. He tried desperately to rid his mind of such thoughts. He knew better than to think about the past, and what might have been.

  
He went about his day as usual, for a usual day it was. He very pointedly did not look for his map of an ancient mountain topped with an inky red dragon, one that he had gotten at the end of the quest to reclaim Erebor. He did not set about immediately cleaning, and preparing food, as he would if he were truly expecting guests. If he made more than he usually did for dinner, only to set it aside for later, he did not acknowledge it as anything out of the ordinary. When he stayed in his day clothes well later than he usually did, he explained it away as it having simply slipped his mind to change into something more comfortable. He removed his favourite tablecloth from the guest table because it was due for a wash, not because there was any danger of it getting soiled by flying food and spilled ale. The reason he could not eat, the pit in his stomach was simply an ordinary illness, or perhaps he had gotten too much sun. It was certainly not anxiety, fear, and a lifetime of repressed memories.

  
When the doorbell’s musical chime caught his ears for the first time that night, Bilbo could not ignore the thrum of his heart speeding up, or pretend that his breath hadn’t left him. He could not ignore the hope and the fear that nestled in his throat, blocking his airways and making his head throb. He opened the door.

  
“Dwalin, at your service.” Bilbo stared for far longer than Dwalin seemed to think appropriate. There was absolutely no way to explain this to himself. He could not pretend that the burly dwarf was anything other than solid, alive, and standing in front of him with an affronted scowl.

  
“Bilbo Baggins, at yours,” he said hurriedly, at the dwarf’s odd look. Bilbo found himself once again speechless. He had not seen Dwalin since the funeral. He hadn’t been able to face him. For all his intimidating stares, and his frighteningly muscular arms, Dwalin had been the only one who would look Bilbo in the eyes, knowing and sad. He had seen grief there, yes, but also a pity that turned his mouth sour. Bilbo had never figured out why, but that look had cut him to the very bone. “Right. Do come in. You can leave your -- uh, equipment -- um, right over here,” he scanned his hallways, and finally, with a grimace, gestured to his mother’s glory box. Dwalin eyed him furiously, but did as he was told, leaving his axes on top of the wooden box. “I have some -- ah -- food prepared,” he said, speaking slowly, distractedly, not sure where to look, or what to do with himself. He fell into the position of host, finding it much easier to flutter around and worry about dishes and seating arrangements than to deal with whatever was happening to him, impossible as it was. He led Dwalin to his own untouched supper.

"Looks good," Dwalin muttered, collapsing heavily into the chair, eyeing the fish on his plate.

“Help yourself,” Bilbo said, already having to suppress his anxiety over not having enough food, not wanting a repeat of Last Time. “I am just going to --” he trailed off, making a dash for the cellar, eyes scanning for anything he could prepare, but he knew it was futile. He had food, that much was certain, but mostly ingredients, not ready made meals. And certainly not enough to feed thirteen hungry dwarves and a wizard. He started pulling out eggs and tea, cheese and ham… He filled his arms as best he could and went the long way around to the kitchen, avoiding the dwarf who was currently scarfing down Bilbo’s dinner. He set some water out to boil, spilling water down his front. Curse his shaking hands. For the rest, they would have to raid his stock and make do. They had done so before. He heard the second chime and rushed to the door. At the very last second, he grabbed the rug that had adorned his hallway since his father had built Bag End for his mother, and wrestled it into the nearest room.

  
Panting, he swung the door open to the sight of Balin. The dwarf hadn’t changed in all the years that Bilbo had known him. His shock of white hair, and hooked nose gave him the appearance of a rather bedraggled dove. His dark eyes were warm but calculating. Bilbo knew all too well the scrutiny he was under. No doubt, Balin was sent in to assess the final member of their party.

  
“Balin, at your service,” he said with a bow, opening his arms wide in greeting.

  
“Good evening,” Bilbo replied, entirely gobsmacked, forgetting his manners. He had not seen Balin since the dwarf had led an expedition to reclaim the mines of Moria. He had heard of his demise from Frodo, and had tried to think of it very little, for it pained him greatly. This Balin was very much alive, seeming to bounce on the balls of his feet.

  
“So it is, though I think it might rain later,” Balin said conversationally.

  
Bilbo did not need to tell the older dwarf to leave his weapons, he left them willingly next to his brother’s. Dwalin had appeared, lurking in the doorway, roll in hand, and the two embraced, smashing their foreheads together aggressively. Bilbo watched them, heart racing, searching for anything to tell him that this was not real, but the scene was so familiar to him, so close and tangible, that he could not. The brothers made their way back into the kitchen, chatting amicably, their voices bouncing off the curved walls.

  
“Plates and cutlery are through that hallway, three doors to the left. Big dining room. Can’t miss it. The pantry is just across the way,” Bilbo said, pointing the dwarves down the hall. “I’m afraid I really wasn’t expecting guests, so I am rather ill prepared.” Balin frowned at that, and Bilbo came to the oddly amusing conclusion that they had expected Gandalf to forewarn him. They clearly did not know the wizard well. “But please do help yourselves.” With that Bilbo scurried away, breathing heavily. In any other situation, he would be in a fright over his poor host skills, running away like that, but given the circumstances, he allowed himself a moment to catch his breath in privacy. He could no longer remember in what order the dwarves arrived on his doorstep, and it did no good to worry over it, but he knew that he would soon be coming face to face with the material that had plagued his very darkest nightmares for longer than he cared to admit. He heard the door, and braced himself, prepared for anything.

  
He was not, however, prepared for anything. Fíli and Kíli stood on his doorstep. Fíli’s grin was smug, whereas Kíli looked stricken. Bilbo wondered vaguely what mischief the two had been getting into before he opened the door, recognizing their behaviour instantly. Kíli was practically vibrating and Bilbo knew it was taking all his self restraint to not turn to his brother to finish whatever argument or other Fíli had started before the door opened.

  
“Fíli.”

  
“And Kíli.”

  
“At your service,” the boys said together with a bow. Bilbo’s throat sealed up faster than he thought possible, and he was able to feel his slow, throbbing heartbeat resonate throughout his numb body. They looked so young. Fíli stood tall. Bilbo had seen him do this often when he was trying to make a good impression. His thick blond hair and beard were immaculately braided. Bilbo could see the prince that he should have been in the way he held himself, the confident jut of his chin, the way he puffed out his chest. He still saw the mischievous glint in his eye, seeming to be fighting off a grin. Fíli had a troublesome streak to him, easily brought out by his brother, who was the more rebellious of the two. Kíli, on the other hand, had a sort of easy grace about him. He lacked the formality that his brother was currently radiating, but he still commanded attention in his own way. His hair, not yet long enough for any intricate braids, fell loosely around his face. His chin was covered in a short stubble and Bilbo was reminded of all the times Kíli had lamented his lack of beard. His large, dark eyes were squinting with effort. Bilbo knew that he was trying not to elbow his elder brother, a common occurrence with the two youngest Durins. Had they always been this young? Unwanted images that he had barred from his mind for years began to swim before his eyes and he felt dizzy. Yes, the boys had always been young. Despite all they had been through, they had been these very same boys. That is, until the gold sickness took them. Until Kíli watched Fíli’s life fade from his eyes as he was impaled, dropped from a cliff like a rag doll. Until Kíli died all by himself, the death of his brother clouding his soft eyes. Bilbo gave his head a vigorous shake, as if he could rid himself of these thoughts by force.

  
“You must be mister Boggins,” Kíli said with a large, somewhat impish smile, hands clasped behind his back.

  
“I --” Bilbo spluttered for several moments, eyes wide. He kept his gaze down, refusing to meet their eyes, afraid of what he would find in them.

  
“Is there something wrong with our burglar?” Kíli asked quietly, turning to his brother, who shrugged, then strutted into Bag End with a bounce to his step. He looked around and nodded in approval. Kíli followed, mimicking his brother with a loping grace.

  
“Nice place, this,” he said. “Did you do it yourself?”

  
“N-no, my-”

  
“See, I told you it wouldn’t be a dark, filthy hole,” Fíli said smugly.

  
“Wha- no you did not,” Kíli replied, outraged. Fíli said nothing, but gave his brother a look that caused the younger to wither with a childish pout.

  
“Be careful with these,” Fíli said, brushing past his brother and handing Bilbo a bundle of weapons. “Only just had them sharpened,” he said with a wink. Bilbo took them gingerly and placed them alongside the other assortment of weapons, mind blank.

  
Balin and Dwalin chose this moment to round the corner, arms laden with food. This was enough to get the two sets of brothers to move out of the hall and into the dining room, where they spoke in carrying voices. His halls were filled with loud, full laughter. A sound he hadn’t heard in too long. He tried to stop the warm swell of his heart unsuccessfully. Fool of a hobbit. This can’t be real. He shut his eyes firmly and shook his head, expecting to hear silence, a sound he was much more accustomed to. And it did fall quiet for a brief moment, and Bilbo was suddenly very aware of the thrum of his own heart. Mere moments later, he heard Dwalin’s rough bark of laughter and the sound of Kíli protesting loudly. If this was real, what was Bilbo to do? How was he meant to face this?

  
Not twenty minutes later, Bilbo found an entire host of dwarves sitting ‘round the big table in his dining room that he only ever put to use when he had guests. His cellars and pantries had been raided to the point of emptiness, and he had not given himself the chance to process anything. He tried his best to not think. Thinking was dangerous, and Bilbo grew more and more flustered at his attempts to shut himself out of his own mind. Once everyone was sitting, and he had served Gandalf (who had arrived with the last group of dwarves) some wine, he finally slowed down. He took out his handkerchief and dabbed the sweat from his brow, standing in the door to his dining room and looking out over the dwarves.

  
There was no more denying it. They were all here, in his home, making an absolute mess, just as they had before. He let his eyes wander. Much of this scene was familiar. Bifur was sneakily helping himself to one of Bombur’s sausages as Bofur practiced his aim by throwing whole eggs into Bombur’s mouth, to the uproarious cheers of the Company. Gandalf and Balin were having a hushed conversation near the end of the table, expressions serious. Kíli was watching them with a predatory smile, then nudged Ori to his right and hurled a chunk of bread at Balin’s head. Balin turned to the young dwarves, expression thunderous and Kíli, managing to school his expression into one of disapproval, pointed at Ori, who blushed and stuttered until Balin looked away. The old dwarf was not through, however, and just as Ori turned to Kíli, looking ready to smack the youngest dwarf, a tomato hit Kíli right in the face. The ensuing food fight would have near given Bilbo an aneurysm Last Time, but this time, Bilbo found himself wanting to take part.

  
Among the chaos, Dwalin poured his ale into Óin’s ear horn, which Óin brought to his mouth, blowing the liquid out, soaking a plate of bread in front of them. The spout of ale narrowly missed Fíli’s legs as he walked across the table handing mugs out, purposefully stepping right on Kíli’s plate. Kíli shouted and whacked his brother’s leg but Fíli just laughed and hopped gracefully off the table, taking a seat between Nori and Glóin. Bilbo ached to join them as they smashed their mugs together and drank them dry, ale spilling into their beards and dripping down their chins.

  
Bilbo drained his glass of wine and went to pour himself another, finding the need to turn away from his old friends. The drink did nothing to soothe his tremors. It seemed to be his very bones that vibrated with such a plethora of raw emotion. By the time the dwarves had finished eating, Bilbo had downed altogether too many glasses of wine and tipsily tried to collect their plates.

  
“None of that now, mister Baggins,” said Bofur with a laugh, taking Bilbo’s plate from him.

  
“You’ve been so ever so gracious, do let us handle the dishes,” said Nori, voice barely hiding his mockery, a rather frightful glint in his eyes. He scooped up a stack of plates and balanced them on one hand. Bilbo let out a worried squeak, much to the amusement of the dwarves. Feeling much at his wits end, Bilbo covered his eyes with his hands as the dwarves began to sing.

Blunt the knives, bend the forks  
Smash the bottles and burn the corks  
Chip the glasses and crack the plates.  
That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!

Cut the cloth and tread on the fat.  
Leave the bones on the bedroom-mat,  
Pour the milk on the pantry-floor  
Splash the wine on every door!

Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl  
Pound them up with a thumping pole.  
When you’ve finished, if they are whole  
Send them down the hall to roll!

That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!

The dwarves erupted into laughter and poor Bilbo, who had really had quite a trying day (he had died, after all), was humiliated to feel his eyes burning. He stood stock still, entirely unable to move as his eyes met Fíli’s. The laughter died from the young dwarf’s face. Kíli, mirroring his brother, looked at Bilbo with concern.

  
“Mister Boggins?” His vision began to blur.

_Bilbo stumbled along, unfeeling, desperate to escape Thorin with his unseeing eyes and his last smile still fading from his face. Bilbo’s toes were blistered and blue from the cold, and he staggered away, balance askew. He had to leave. As soon as he had heard Dwalin’s fierce, broken cry, Bilbo knew that he’d seen Thorin, and Bilbo had taken off. Dwalin had called after him, but he needed to be alone in his grief. He didn’t want the warrior to see this. That’s when he caught sight of Fíli. His broken body lay underneath an outcropping of rock. He had clearly been dropped carelessly from the top, left to bleed out alone. His chest was wet and dark with blood, his glassy eyes staring brokenly off at some point in the distance. Fíli’s face was torn into a grief so severe that even in death, he could not escape it. Something in Bilbo stirred, and he knew, before he turned to look, that he would find Kíli behind him. Kíli’s eyes had been closed, by whom Bilbo did not know. He looked almost peaceful. His hands were together, cradling a small stone. A token from a mother who had yet to learn that she would never see her sons again._

Bilbo let out a gasping, ragged breath and turned and ran blindly out his front door. Catching his foot on a step, he fell in a violent heap at the bottom of his garden stairs and finally allowed the tears to fall. _At least I’m alone_ , he thought sullenly. He made no move to stand up, he just stayed face down in the dirt, unable to feel anything. His poor old heart just about stopped from shock when he heard a most familiar, though distant grumble. Looking up from the ground, Bilbo’s eyes met the deep blue that had haunted him for nearly a century. _Thorin._

  
Thorin towered over the hobbit, making no move to help him up. After a moment of silence, Bilbo slowly got to his feet, neglecting to brush the dirt off his clothing. What a sight he must be, covered in dirt and tears, like some helpless faunt. Thorin let out a depraising snort.

  
“You must be the halfling,” he drawled importantly. Eyes raking over Bilbo with disdain. He was a regal sight, but Bilbo was stricken by how different this Thorin looked to the most recent memories Bilbo had. This Thorin was well fed and well groomed, with clothes that were not yet soiled from weather and wear. Last Time, he hadn’t realized how Thorin had been affected by their months on the road, but it was quite obvious now, even in the dark evening sky.

  
“Thorin,” Bilbo breathed, very aware of his own heartbeat thumping wildly against his throat.

  
“So you have heard of me,” Thorin said, still sizing him up. “Good. Tell me, halfling, do you have much experience fighting? Or burglaring, for that matter?” Bilbo gaped up at him for another moment, then brushed himself off hurriedly, standing as straight and proud as he could.

  
“Actually I do,” he said irritably. Thorin’s disapproving tone had cut Bilbo deeper than he thought possible. “And I’m not half of anything, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t name me as such.” Thorin raised an eyebrow at him, but remained impassive. Bilbo huffed.

  
“Axe or sword. Which is your weapon of choice?”

  
“Sword, if you really must know,” Bilbo said, nose twitching, crossing his arms defensively over his dusty chest.

  
“Just as I thought,” Thorin said with a disbelieving laugh. “You look more like a grocer than a burglar.” Bilbo felt like he’d been slapped in the face. He had heard these words from the king before, but it was different this time. These were biting, faithless. There was nothing of the soft teasing that Bilbo had grown accustomed to towards the end of their short friendship. Anger and pain clouded his mind, fists clenching.

  
“And you look more like a burglar than a king, what of it?” He snapped back. Thorin’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, then he shot the hobbit a glare that should have sent him crawling away in fear. Bilbo crumpled slightly. “Tho-- Master Oakenshield, I --” Thorin brushed past him, expression stony, and lumbered into Bilbo’s house without invitation. _Now you’ve done it, you silly old hobbit,_ Bilbo told himself, trailing after Thorin mournfully.

* * *

The dwarves sat once again around Bilbo’s dining table, but the mood had changed. He could see hope, apprehension, fear, and trust in all of their faces. He looked at Thorin, whose expression was carefully guarded. Last Time, Bilbo would not have known what it meant, but he knew better now. This was the expression Thorin wore when facing his own failure. It had clouded his face when he died.

  
“And what came of the meeting at Ered Luin?” Balin asked. “Did they all come?”

  
“Aye. Envoys from all seven kingdoms,” Thorin replied.

  
“And what did the dwarves of the Iron Hills say? Is Dain with us?” Dwalin asked, searching Thorin’s face with ease. Balin saw what Bilbo did in Thorin’s eyes and his face fell almost imperceptibly. The tension in the room rose suddenly, and Bilbo, knowing what the answer was, felt his face fall into a scowl.

  
“They will not come,” Thorin said, not meeting anyone’s eye. “They say this is our quest, and ours alone.” The other dwarves made noises of disappointment and Thorin bowed his head.

  
“It is no matter,” said Gandalf. “This mission requires stealth and cunning above brute strength.”

  
“Which is why we’re bringing Mister Baggins,” said Ori thoughtfully.

  
“Indeed,” Gandalf said with a pleased smile. He came closer to the table, pulling a map out from his robes. “Far to the East, over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single solitary peak.” Gandalf placed the map on the table and pointed to a single mountain, an inky red dragon curled protectively over its peak. Bilbo did not need to get any closer to see the map. He had spent hours and hours pouring over it. It was practically committed to memory.

  
“The Lonely Mountain,” Fíli said breathlessly, eyes wide.

  
“Aye. Óin has read the portents, and the portents say: it is time,” said Glóin, giving his brother a rough pat on the back.

  
“Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain as it was foretold. When the birds of old return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end,” Óin added. Fíli’s eyes shone with excitement and determination and he nodded respectfully at Óin, who smiled back.

  
“And that would be in reference to Smaug the terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age. Airborne fire breather, teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks, extremely fond of precious metals,” Bofur said, with exaggerated flippancy, clearly for Bilbo’s benefit.

  
“Oh, very helpful, Bofur,” Gandalf muttered sarcastically, eyeing the hobbit for signs of fear.

  
“Yes, I know what a dragon is,” Bilbo said, standing his ground. Gandalf gave him an appraising look.

“I’m not afraid. I’m up for it. I’ll give him a taste of dwarvish iron right up his jacksy!” Ori said, standing up gracelessly, much to the embarrassment of Dori, who shook his head at his brother. Bilbo felt a laugh bubble up his throat at the young dwarf’s words. It was drowned out by cheers from the rest of the company, and he felt a swell of pride at their unshakable determination. He had forgotten what a spitfire Ori could be. On either side of him, Nori laughed appreciatively, while Dori scowled at his younger brother’s lack of refinement.

  
“Sit down,” Dori said, pulling Ori’s sleeve. Bilbo caught Fíli and Kíli shooting Ori proud looks from across the table.

  
“The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us, but we number just thirteen, and not thirteen of the best, nor brightest,” Balin said diplomatically.

  
“Hey! Who are you calling dim?” Nori cried, drowned out by another surge of loud voices talking over one another.

  
“We may be few in number. But we’re fighters, all of us! To the last dwarf!” Fíli said loudly, slamming his fists on the table, commanding the attention and silence of all.

  
“And you forget we have a wizard in our company, Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time,” Kíli added enthusiastically, looking at Gandalf with admiration.

  
“Oh, well. No, uh, I…I wouldn’t say…” Gandalf mumbled, taking a step back from the table.

  
“How many then?” Dori said, leaning forward in his seat.

  
“What?” Gandalf replied, though he very well knew what.

  
“Well, how many dragons have you killed? Go on, give us a number!” Dori said, growing impatient. Gandalf kept his mouth shut, and the room was once again swallowed by a roar of sound. Dwarves stood up, and were having yelled conversations at each other, while others were trying to goad Gandalf into giving them an answer.

  
“Come now, that’s quite enough yelling,” Bilbo said, slamming his palms down on the table. The only person who heard him was Thorin, who seemed entirely underwhelmed by the hobbit’s attempt to keep the peace.

  
“Enough!” Thorin bellowed, standing tall and looking out over the company. When everyone settled down, he spoke again. “If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too? Rumors have begun to spread. The dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes look East to the mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lies unprotected. Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor?” Thorin’s voice rose, and along with it, the mood of the entire room. He yelled something in Khuzdul and Bilbo felt a twinge of annoyance at his lack of understanding. He never had learnt more than a few swears, which was more than he should know of the secret language, but even still, he had never been fond of being the odd one out. The dwarves stood up and cheered.

  
“You forget the front gate is sealed. There is no way into the mountain,” Balin said, looking guilty at spoiling the mood.

  
“That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true,” Gandalf said, twirling a large metal key in his fingers. The room fell silent and Bilbo’s eyes found Thorin, who looked awestruck.

  
“How came you by this?” His eyes pierced the wizard keenly.

  
“It was given to me by your father. By Thráin, for safekeeping. It is yours now,” he said, handing the key to Thorin. The Company looked on, sure they were witnessing something monumental. Bilbo, on the other hand, grimaced. He wished he could take the key, shove it somewhere that would never see the light again, and tell his friends that it was a lost cause, but they were welcome to stay in the Shire for as long as they wanted. He knew it was an absolute fool's hope, so he clenched his fists and glared at the wall above Bombur’s head.

  
“If there is a key, there must also be a door,” Fíli said thoughtfully.

  
“Yes, yes, very good, Fíli,” Gandalf said, sounding unimpressed at Fíli’s rather basic logic. “These runes speak of a hidden passage to the lower halls.” Gandalf gestured to a small mark on the face of the mountain.

  
“There’s another way in,” Kíli said, brimming with excitement. He clutched Fíli’s arm tightly and the brothers shared a loaded look.

  
“Well, if we can find it, but dwarf doors are invisible when closed. The answer lies hidden somewhere in this map, and I do not have the skill to find it, but there are others in Middle-Earth who can. The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth, and no small amount of courage. But if we’re careful and clever, I believe that it can be done.” Bilbo, who had passed unseen for most of the meeting, suddenly felt the weight of fourteen pairs of eyes falling on him expectantly. Bilbo coughed uncomfortably and tried to shrink back.

  
“D’you think he’s up to the task?” Glóin asked loudly, reminding Bilbo much of his son, Gimli, whom Bilbo had met only once in Rivendell. “He doesn’t look like much.”

  
“We would need an expert, I’d wager,” said Bofur, to a rousing chorus of agreement.

  
“Look at him,” Glóin cried. “He’s all Shire. We need someone tough.”

  
“I’m afraid I have to agree with Glóin. He’s hardly burglar material,” Balin said apologetically. Bilbo frowned.

  
“Aye, the wild is no place for gentle folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves,” Dwalin growled.

  
“Excuse me,” Bilbo said, stepping forward, fists clenched angrily. He had fought so hard for their approval Last Time, that going back to square one was too much. “But don’t pretend to know me based on how I’ve reacted to thirteen dwarves and a wizard barging into my house completely unexpected, and making a frightful mess of my home. I daresay, if this is how you will conduct yourselves on the road, you won’t need a burglar, because you will cause such a raucous that you won't ever make it to the Lonely Mountain. And furthermore, if you would just ask me instead of making assumptions, we could skip this whole sorry discussion.” The room fell silent, most of the dwarves having the good grace to look ashamed. Gandalf put a calming hand on Bilbo’s shoulder.

  
“Yes, I daresay we have wasted quite enough time for one night,” said Gandalf, whose patience was wearing thin. “If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is! Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet. In fact, they can pass unseen by most if they so choose, and while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of a dwarf, the scent of a hobbit is all but unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage. You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company, and I have chosen Mr. Baggins. There’s a lot more to him than appearances suggest. And he’s got a great deal more to offer than any of you know, including himself.” Thorin was unabashedly glaring at Bilbo, but Bilbo did not cower. “You must trust me on this,” Gandalf said, looking between the hobbit and the dwarf king. Thorin’s eyes flicked to the wizard.

  
“Very well. We’ll do it your way,” he said with a sneer. “Give him the contract.” Balin unrolled a long scroll and set in front of Bilbo, who made quite the show of reading it expressionlessly and then signing it with an aggressive flourish. Behind him, Thorin stood next to Gandalf.

  
“I cannot guarantee his safety,” he said, unwilling to put his own kin at risk for this rather angry halfling.

  
“Understood,” Gandalf replied.

  
“Nor will I be responsible for his fate,” he continued, hoping to persuade Gandalf to talk the hobbit out of it. He did not want to be responsible for a weak link. He already had to watch Fíli and Kíli on top of himself, Dís had made that much clear when he had taken her sons from her side.

  
“Agreed,” Gandalf said, mouth set in a stubborn scowl.

  
After signing the contract, Bilbo turned on his heel and stomped out of his dining room, leaving many confused dwarves and a wizard in his wake. He opened his front door and sat on his front steps, breathing the cool spring breeze in deeply. After a few minutes, he heard the unmistakable footfalls of the wizard, heavier than a hobbit, but much lighter and more careful than a dwarf. Gandalf sat down next to him and handed Bilbo his pipe.

  
“A fine night,” Gandalf said with a pleased sigh. Bilbo hummed his agreement. The wizard turned and scrutinized the small man next to him quietly. “My dear Bilbo, are you quite alright?”

  
“I’ll be fine, I just need to sit and think for a moment,” Bilbo said, fiddling with his pipe, not looking at the wizard.

  
“You’ve been sitting quietly for far too long. I remember a young hobbit who was always running off in search of Elves, in the woods. He’d stay out late, come home, after dark, trailing mud and twigs and fireflies. A young hobbit who would’ve liked nothing better than to find out what was beyond the borders of the Shire. There is more of him in you than you realize. You will not regret this,” Gandalf said. Bilbo let out a derisive snort. Won’t regret it indeed.

  
“People will think it odd. I am a Baggins, of Bag End!” Bilbo argued half heartedly, more for appearance than anything.

  
“You are also a Took. Did you know that your great, great, great, great uncle Bullroarer Took, was so large he could ride a real horse?”

  
“Of course I know it.” Gandalf was not discouraged.

  
“Yes, well he could! In the battle of Greenfields, he charged the goblin ranks and swung his club so hard, it knocked the goblin king’s head clean off, and it sailed a hundred yards through the air, and went down a rabbit hole. And thus the battle was won, and the game of golf invented at the same time.”

  
“I do believe you made that up,” Bilbo said, a smile threatening to break across his face.

  
“Well, all good stories deserve embellishment. You’ll have a tale or two to tell of your own when you come back.”

  
“Stories indeed,” Bilbo muttered, taking a puff of his pipe. “That is, if I come back.”

  
Gandalf sighed. “Quite right,” he said. “No, you might not come back. And if you do, you’ll not be the same.”

  
“I know,” Bilbo said sadly, meeting Gandalf’s eyes. Gandalf’s brow furrowed, and Bilbo looked away hurriedly. Gandalf was incredibly perceptive. He would have to remember that and do a better job of hiding his roiling emotions. Bilbo stood.

  
“I will do this, Gandalf,” he said. “But I cannot promise that I will be all that you expect of me.”

  
“I understand,” Gandalf said calmly. Bilbo nodded once, paused as if to say something else, then walked away.

* * *

“It appears we have gained a burglar,” Balin said, clasping his hands together. He and Thorin were sitting alone in one of Bilbo’s round hallways.

  
“A halfling, you mean,” Thorin grumbled. Ballin gave Thorin a pointed look.

  
“The odds were always against us. After all, what are we? Merchants, miners, tinkers, toy makers. Hardly the stuff of legend. He may not be so at odds among us. The halfling may surprise us yet,” Balin said sagely.

  
“There are a few warriors among us still,” Thorin said, gaze full of meaning.

  
“Old warriors.” Balin sighed.

  
“I would take each and every one of these dwarves over an army from the Iron Hills, for when I called upon them, they answered. Loyalty, honor, a willing heart. I can ask no more than that.”

  
“You don’t have to do this, lad. You have a choice. You’ve done honorably by our people. You have built a new life for us in the Blue Mountains. A life of peace and plenty. A life that is worth more than all the gold in Erebor,” Balin said, leaning towards Thorin, voice falling quiet.

  
“From my grandfather to my father, this has come to me. They dreamt of the day when the dwarves of Erebor would reclaim their homeland. There is no choice, Balin. Not for me.”

  
“Then we are with you, laddie,” Balin said. “We will see it done.”

* * *

After his conversation with Gandalf, Bilbo had gone straight to his room. He didn’t know if he could face what came next. He barricaded himself in and wrapped himself up in blankets. If supper had been unbearable, them singing would be torture. Despite his better judgement, after about ten minutes, Bilbo craned his sensitive ears. _Blast it._ He let himself out and rounded the corner just as the dwarves started. The slow, mournful hum enveloped him, just as it had done before. It seemed to vibrate and bounce off his very skeleton. The dwarves were standing around the hearth, Thorin slightly in front. When their leader started to sing, Bilbo felt something in him break. It was so loud, and so painful that he didn’t feel the part of him that started to heal. He came to a rest next to Gandalf, who gave him a searching look. Bilbo could think of nothing else, eyes fixed on his king. Something in him was swelling, threatening to break out of his very ribs. His breathing was shallow and slow.

Far over the Misty Mountains cold.

To dungeons deep and caverns old.

We must away ere break of day.

To find our long forgotten gold.

The pines were roaring on the height,

The winds were moaning in the night.

The fire was red, it flaming spread.

The trees like torches blazed with light.

As the dwarves finished their song, Thorin looked up at Bilbo, who was instantly broken out of his reverie. He was immensely embarrassed to find his eyes were threatening to spill over with tears, and he could feel his cheeks redden. Bilbo did not break eye contact however, and he felt Thorin’s deep blue eyes bore into his own, expression unreadable. Thorin was the one to look away first. Bilbo wished Gandalf goodnight, startling the wizard with his abruptness, then once again, barricaded himself in his room.

  
He knew what they thought of him. What they must be saying of him now. He’d gone ahead and made an even worse first impression than the first time, and that was saying something. _An impressive feat indeed, Master Baggins_ , he thought miserably. Despite knowing how desperately he would need this last night’s rest, Bilbo did not go to sleep. _I’ll sleep when I’m dead_ , he thought savagely.

  
_Hang on,_ he thought, the beginnings of an idea forming. Bilbo was, for all intents and purposes, an anomaly. He had never heard even of children’s tales of those given a second chance at life. Because, he reasoned, this is not a second chance at life for him, this was for Thorin and Fíli and Kíli. Bilbo had already lived a much longer life than a hobbit should, or would want to live. He had been ready to die, and he would continue to be ready when the time came. He was never destined to have a happy ending, but he could create one for those who were. It was something he had always been willing to do, only now he had the means and opportunity.

  
With this thought, Bilbo found a new hope. It was not a hope for himself, but a hope for others. A hope to trade his own rather sad ending for a happy ending for his loved ones. This hope was one he would allow himself to feel. He felt a fierce determination then, and knew what he needed to do. He took out some paper and a quill and began to write an unofficial will, for he did not intend to return to Bag End. He grew weary at the prospect of packing, but made himself a thorough list of things he knew to be important.

  
When he nodded off for the fifth time, he knew enough was enough. He closed up his bag, now bursting with essentials, and dragged himself into bed, pulling his covers up as high as he could without exposing his toes. In his sleepy state, Bilbo thought he heard Thorin, once again humming his mournful tune from the best guest room next to Bilbo’s own. Despite the pit in his stomach, he found sleep quite easily.

He was greeted by the jaws of death: Smaug himself. He had Bilbo in his enormous claws, tail coiled around one of Erebor’s massive pillars.

  
“Do you really expect to change things?” The dragon said, his roaring laughter burning hot on Bilbo’s face. His breath smelled of fire and decay. “Do you really think this will be any better, halfling? Why would you want it to be? They never cared for you as you cared for them. Their leader would have seen you dead, and not one of them lifted a finger.”

  
“N-no, you’re wrong,” Bilbo said shakily. Even as he spoke, he could feel Thorin’s fingers hard against his throat. He could see the unforgiving, hateful glint in his stormy eyes. Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “I will see them through this.”

  
“Then you will see them all die.” Smaug’s laughter surrounded him as his jaws opened to a pillar of fire.

  
Bilbo’s eyes swam with hundreds of unwanted images. Fíli and Kíli, eyes unseeing and haunted, Thorin pleading for forgiveness with his last dying breath. This will not happen. I will change things. Bilbo was barraged with glimpses of hundreds of possible futures. Kíli’s arms ripped limb from limb by hungry trolls, Fíli falling to his death off the knee of a battling rock giant, lost forever, Thorin clamped in the jaws of Azog’s warg on the cliff outside the goblin kingdom. He saw Bombur drowning in the river in Mirkwood, Bofur clawed to death by an orc, sweet Ori ravaged by a pack of wargs, Bifur’s unseeing eyes peering out from his spider web prison. He saw every possible mistake, haunted by the faces of his friends in death. Their listless eyes stared vacantly at him and he began to shake. He watched as Smaug cornered them on the slopes of Erebor, burning every last one of them to nothing but charred bones. He could smell the acrid smell of burnt flesh, felt the smoke and dust from their demise squeezing his lungs, each breath heavy and rattling. He choked on the dust filling his lungs and wondered who he had breathed in. Whose remains were now rattling around in his lungs.

  
Then he heard the ring. It called to him, a force he thought he had abandoned when he left it with Frodo. It made him ache and sweat. He could feel it heavy in his pocket. He tried to run but it weighed him down and held him back. His fingers itched and clung to the ring, as if on their own accord, world fading to a blurry gray that made him nauseous and dizzy. The very air became thin and wispy, and every gasping, desperate breath caused stars to appear in the corners of Bilbo’s eyes. He ripped the ring from his finger and flung it as far as he could.  
Then he was at Thorin’s funeral. It was dead silent, save for his gasps of air, bouncing off the high walls and echoing throughout the cavernous hall. Bilbo leaned right over his friend, until they were face to face. His expression was peaceful, but there was something dark emanating from his corpse. Thorin’s eyes opened, and Bilbo was staring into the white blue of the Arkenstone, swirling in his sockets. Thorin’s decaying hands reached for Bilbo’s throat.

Bilbo’s own eyes flew open, coming into contact with the untainted eyes of Thorin. He let out a strangled scream and scrambled back as far as he could. Thorin’s hands recoiled from Bilbo’s arms, his face showing shock only momentarily, before becoming once again impassive. Bilbo’s breath was coming hard and fast. His hair was matted to his head with sweat, and his mouth full of blood, lips worn raw from his teeth. The dwarf shot a furious look at Gandalf, who was towering over the two, expression grave. Then he turned his disdainful gaze back on Bilbo, whose face was still twisted in pain.

  
“You failed to mention that your halfling was broken, Gandalf,” Thorin spat, keeping his eyes on the trembling hobbit. “What if this were to happen on the road? He would bring death upon us in mere moments.”

  
“It won’t happen again, I swear it,” Bilbo said in a panic, breathing still heavy. He met Thorin’s eyes and tried to mimic the king’s own cold glare, narrowing his eyes and jutting out his chin.

  
“No, it won’t,” Thorin said. It was an order, and Bilbo knew it. Thorin stormed out and Bilbo ran his hands through his sweaty hair before looking up at Gandalf. The wizard was eyeing him shrewdly.

  
“What?” Bilbo snapped impatiently. Gandalf sighed.

  
“Whatever will we do with you, Bilbo Baggins?”


	2. Of Mutton and Stubborn Dwarves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the adventure begins...
> 
> Just wanted to say thank you all so much for the reviews and kudos. It means the world :)
> 
> Please excuse any errors. I've found that editing is my own personal hell, and gave up part way through.

* * *

The morning dawned crisp and chilly, a thin blanket of fog enveloping the rolling hills and quaint homes of Hobbiton. The town was still asleep, and a pang of nostalgia and loss hit Bilbo, giving him a funny feeling in his stomach. He watched his home disappear, the large hill looming behind him for a painfully long time. Bag End held both bitter and sweet memories, and he sent a silent goodbye to his beautiful green door, his garden, his maps, and his bed. His thoughts drifted to his cousin Drogo, who would hopefully now have the chance to grow old with his wife and son, with the carefully worded warning Bilbo had left in a letter addressed to Drogo alone. Bilbo wished nothing more than for Frodo to not experience the pain of losing a family and losing a home the way they both had Last Time. He let out a gentle sigh and reached for his handkerchief to dab at his runny nose, aggravated from sweet Myrtle’s fur. Now, which pocket had he put it in? It wasn’t where it usually was… He checked his other pockets, and knew without checking his bag that he had forgotten the damn thing again. Fate, it seemed, had a funny sense of humour.

The Company rode in near silence. Most were still half asleep, or at least unwilling to hold a conversation so early in the morning. Bilbo knew that the vast majority of the dwarves handled early mornings better than he himself had done as a younger hobbit, but he had now adopted the sleeping habits that he had so mercilessly teased his grandma Baggins about before she’d passed. He slept with the sun and rose with the dawn, which suited him perfectly well, as he was none too fond of the dark, and all that came with it anymore. 

Near the front of the line of ponies, Thorin, Gandalf, and Balin were muttering quietly between themselves. Thorin had been avoiding Bilbo thoroughly since his waking that morning, and Bilbo was quite glad for it. In fact, he was grateful for the silence and the solitude he found riding atop Myrtle. No one spoke to him or asked him questions. There were no bets made for or against his participation this time, he was as of yet undoubted. 

He was quite concerned, however, about what he would do when his old friends started to wake up. He knew of at least a couple of them who would be bold enough to try and get to know the final member of their party, despite the obvious tension between him and their leader. Bofur, he knew, would be one of them, and Bilbo was not quite sure how he would avoid such a thing. Fíli and Kíli, too, would be a problem, seeing as Bilbo had yet to face them without being sent into a spiral of panic and grief. As a solution, Bilbo kept his head down and hoped that no one would disturb him. 

His suspicions about Bofur proved to be correct far sooner than Bilbo would have liked. By the end of the day, Bofur had tried to talk to him in increasingly drastic ways, culminating in a rather unfortunate incident where Bofur had followed him into the forest and surprised him when he was trying to pee.

“Evening,” Bofur said casually, coming to a dead stop on the other side of the tree that Bilbo was currently relieving himself on. The forest was suddenly filled with the jangling of a belt being undone and Bilbo found himself looking to the sky, wishing desperately to be anywhere but there at that very moment. 

“Eru above,” Bilbo swore, doing up his own belt as quickly as possible. “You can’t honestly think that this is a good way to make someone’s acquaintance, Bofur,” Bilbo said, rolling his eyes but keeping them well above eye-level. 

“I thought I’d try my hand at it,” the dwarf said with a shrug and a lazy grin. “You’re not the easiest man to catch alone.”

“So naturally the next step was to ambush him while he pisses,” Bilbo said dryly.

“Naturally,” Bofur grinned, doing his belt buckle back up again. He paused, looking at Bilbo expectantly.

“If you’re expecting me to carry on the conversation, you’re sorely mistaken,” Bilbo said, turning towards the camp.

“Ah, but you’ve just continued it now,” Bofur said, following Bilbo jauntily.

“Piss off.”

“Afraid I’m rather dry at the moment, but we could try for later.” Bofur’s eyes danced with mirth and it took Bilbo a second to understand his meaning. 

“You’re disgusting,” Bilbo replied without any true bite. 

“Part of the charm,” said Bofur with a wink so quick that Bilbo nearly missed it. He clearly took Bilbo’s words as approval to continue the conversation, and Bilbo braced himself for a full onslaught of Bofur. “So I must admit, I’m a little disappointed you were so easily convinced to join us. Was hoping I could make some money off of it.”

“My apologies.”

“Guess how I would have bet,” Bofur said, clasping his hands tightly behind his back, a spring in his step. Bilbo said nothing, hoping Bofur would take his silence as a dismissal. “I would have bet in your favour.”

“Thank you, I think,” Bilbo said, touched, but still annoyed. Bofur smiled and maintained eye contact quite impressively, given that they were climbing through the underbrush. 

“So tell me a little bit about yourself. What’s a little fellow like you doing on a quest like this?”

“I ask myself the same question every day,” Bilbo said. 

“Oh ho! We’ve got a joker with us,” Bofur said, letting out a booming laugh. “That was a good one.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be, but I’m glad you find my suffering amusing.”

“Ooh, a little testy tonight, are we?” Bofur teased good naturedly.

“What-- what do you want from me?” Bilbo asked, coming to a stop, facing Bofur who was still grinning easily.

“Just a bit of company, nothing serious,” Bofur said, smile falling almost imperceptibly. Bilbo had to remind himself that this was not Bofur’s fault. That the pain and anguish he felt each time he looked in someone’s eyes had absolutely nothing to do with his companions, and everything to do with himself. 

“I’m sorry, Bofur,” Bilbo said, dropping his head in shame. “I’m afraid I’ve made quite an ass of myself.”

“Oh, nonsense,” said Bofur, perking up instantly. “I think we’ll get along just swimmingly.” Bilbo forced a smile. This was what he had been afraid of. _Oh my dear Bofur,_ Bilbo thought sadly. _Not this time, if I can help it._

A clear, dark night, what seemed like an eternity after their departure from Bag End, but was really mere weeks, the Company stopped for the night at a place that was all too familiar to Bilbo. It had been the first time he had well and truly seen the king, the true leader that Thorin had always been. They set up camp on the side of a cliff, which, in Bilbo’s opinion, was not the smartest place to be, but he held his tongue, as he was getting used to doing. He was unsurprised as the cry of the orcs in the distance echoed in his ears, causing a shiver to run through his body. The sounds shattered in his mind and mixed with the cries of war, the screams of death and destruction. The smell of blood, metallic and tangy, mixing with sweat, the bodies coated with mud and dirt. Just weeks ago, these memories had seemed a lifetime ago, a ghost of the hobbit who had once dreamed of staying by the side of the King Under the Mountain. Now, however, they raised the hairs on his arms and made his stomach churn uncomfortably. This was all too real, and all too imminent, and there was nothing slowing him down as he barrelled head first into a choking uncertainty.

“Do you know what that is, Mister Boggins,” Kíli called across the fire, a familiar conspiratorial look on his face. Bilbo jumped, turning around to stare at the youngest Durin.

“Orcs,” Bilbo replied, as coolly as he could, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Yes, orcs,” Fíli continued, hiding a smirk. “Throat cutters. There’ll be dozens of them out there. The lowlands are crawling with them.”

“They strike, in the wee small hours, when everyone’s asleep. Quick and quiet, no screams. Just lots of blood,” Kíli said, eyes swimming with mirth. Fíli elbowed him subtly, and Kili tried harder to hide his amusement. 

“I hardly think a night raid by orcs is something to laugh about,” Bilbo said, squaring his shoulders. Fíli and Kíli looked like they were about to roll their eyes when Thorin sauntered over. He shot Bilbo a look that very clearly stated that he had overstepped his bounds. The young princes were his responsibility.

“The halfling is right,” Thorin ground out, seemingly pained to admit it. “This is no joke, and it will do us no good to send the hobbit running before the first sign of trouble.” Veiled or not, Bilbo knew an insult when he heard one.

“I beg your pardon?!” There was no way Thorin could know that Bilbo was made of sterner stuff than most hobbits. The familiar insults no longer made him cower, rather put him on the defensive. Thorin ignored Bilbo, still focused on his nephews, and Bilbo took a moment to curse the lost sense of faith, so painfully earned. 

“We meant nothing by it,” Kíli said defensively. 

“We’re sorry, uncle,” Fíli said, lowering his voice and speaking as slowly and maturely as possible. Bilbo’s lips twitched as Kíli shot Fíli a betrayed look. 

“No, you didn’t. You’re too young. You know nothing of the world. I should never have brought you,” Thorin said, glaring at his nephews, who looked stricken. Thorin stalked off, a heavy silence lingering over the camp. Fíli and Kíli huddled together but said nothing. Fíli was doing his very best to look unshaken. His chin was jutted out defiantly, and his eyes were daggers, daring anyone to say anything, betrayed only by the flush on his ears and cheeks. Kíli had never been one to hide his emotions, and his face was set into an all familiar pout as he angrily ripped at a patch of grass near his feet.

“Don’t mind him, lads. Thorin has more cause than most to hate orcs,” Balin said kindly. Knowing the story that was to come, his own memories feeling like a punch to the gut, Bilbo stalked over to his sleeping pad and pulled the covers up over his head, hoping to drown it all out.

“You might want to hear this, laddie,” Balin said in a tone that told Bilbo quite plainly that he was being rude.

“I know very well why the King hates orcs, I have picked up a book before,” Bilbo said, cursing himself instantly for his troublesome pride, and sitting up again. He knew the tale that Balin was about to tell, yes. Knew it better than most, actually. Something in him found comfort in Thorin’s story. Something that reminded him that the path that lay before him was the right one, no matter how much he was bound to lose. Thorin had suffered enough in any lifetime.

“What book might that be?” Balin asked kindly, although Bilbo could see the confusion in the old dwarf’s eyes. Bilbo knew how secretive dwarves were about their histories, so how in Eru’s name was he to explain this away?

“The Red Book of Westmarch,” Bilbo said, as casually as he could manage. This was not a lie, in fact, despite the book not existing yet, as he had written as much of Thorin’s personal history into it as he could. And he had indeed read it there, although it was not where he had first heard it.

“And what is it exactly that the Red Book of Westmarch told you?” asked Balin with poorly veiled suspicion. Bilbo felt several eyes on him then and cleared his throat awkwardly. 

“Well, I’m sure you know it better than I,” Bilbo conceded.

“Don’t be shy, lad. I’m curious to hear what you know,” Balin said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Right,” Bilbo said with a huff. “Well, after Smaug took Erebor, Thrór decided to reclaim Moria,” Bilbo said, trying to keep it simple and straightforward. “Moria was taken over by orcs, led by Azog, who had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin. He beheaded Thrór, then Thráin went mad with grief and disappeared, and Thorin fought Azog, using the oaken branch as his shield, and severed his arm… Then the battle was won and that’s that,” Bilbo said, fighting off a shake in his voice. He was normally a very good story teller, but something about this situation made his tongue feel heavy and clumsy, the air in his lungs running out before he could finish a sentence. 

“Well, that’s the gist of it, yes,” said Balin, looking affronted. Around him, Bilbo saw many eyes on him, some confused, some sad, some angry. Was it really that bad that he knew such a thing? 

“Excuse me,” Bilbo said, standing up abruptly, and walking away from the fire, clenching his shaking hands together. He kept his pace even, despite every nerve in his body telling him to run away from there. He knew he had crossed some invisible line, but he didn’t know what that line was. Finally, he reached Myrtle and stood in front of her awkwardly. He was still rather uncomfortable around such a large creature, but she had become the only being with whom he could be honest. The only one he would allow himself to crack in front of. 

“Well,” he said in a hushed voice, tangling his fingers in her mane. “I seem to have messed up again, though I know not how.” Bilbo squeezed his heavy eyelids shut and took a deep breath. The cold air stung his nostrils and the smell of campfire was all at once inviting and alienating. He listened to the mosquitoes, and the telling flutter of bats going after them. He took a moment to remind himself that this was real, for even still, there were times where it felt like a dream. That one day he would wake to a life where he had already gone through the terrible first weeks with the Company. A life where he had loved his friends and they had loved him back. And then lost them. Bilbo shook himself firmly. He had to keep the old memories separate. Not for the first time, nor for the last, Bilbo wished that his memory had not been recovered upon his... Well, what would he call it? Rebirth? In any case, he had been old, and his mind had reflected that quite honestly. Bilbo could recall the fog that had encased his withered mind with a surprising ease. He knew that most days, he had felt the pain that had lingered around like an old wound, but could not recall why it hurt. At times like these, Bilbo prayed to all the Valar that he did not have to look over and see the curious unfamiliarity in Fíli and Kíli, the calculating, reserved looks coming from Balin, Bofur’s playful but sometimes hesitant smiles… What he would not give to not have those hateful blue eyes, that should be kind and forgiving, following his every move with disdain and mistrust. Bilbo sighed once again and Myrtle snorted gently, nuzzling his hand with her nose. 

“Burglar.” Despite having heard Thorin’s approaching footfalls, Bilbo jumped as his voice rang out, cold and accusatory. “Have you no self control?”

“I beg your pardon?” Bilbo asked, stomach in knots.

“You speak so simply of matters which you know nothing about. You would do better in the future to hold your tongue,” Thorin said. His voice was carefully controlled -- Thorin was holding something back.

“I-I’m sorry if I--”

“You know nothing of the losses we suffered. You know nothing of the pain that was inflicted on my people that day.” Bilbo’s heart hammered in his chest, but he could do nothing but listen in horror. “Every single one of those dwarves have been affected by it,” Thorin continued, eyes blazing. “It was there that Bifur took an axe to his head, there that Balin and Dwalin lost their father and Balin, his husband, th-”

“Thorin.” Thorin froze instantly, a look of unmistakable guilt marring his features. Balin was standing behind them, watching Thorin with a look of piercing disappointment.

“Balin,” Thorin said in a detached voice. Balin was frowning and seemed to be thinking deeply about what to say next. He turned to Bilbo with a slight grimace.

“Bilbo, what you must understand is that dwarves are very secretive and very particular about their histories. Telling them in such a way can be likened to speaking ill of the dead.” Bilbo felt his face sag. He thought he now understood the furious light in Thorin’s eyes, knowing that it was at that battle that he had watched his grandfather be killed, and where his father had gone missing. 

“Oh, Balin, I’m so sorry,” Bilbo said as sincerely as possible. Despite counting Balin as one of his oldest friends, he had never known about his husband, and the guilt ate away at him sharply. “That was never my intention.”

“I know, lad,” Balin said with a tight smile. “You couldn’t have known.” He looked at Thorin quite pointedly as he said this. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I need to have a word with our leader.” Bilbo nodded and walked slowly back to where the group was huddled around the campfire, regret swirling like an angered wasp in his mind. 

“Thorin.” Bilbo heard Balin say. He should not listen to their conversation, he knew that, but somehow he couldn’t quite tune it out. He paused just outside of the firelight, frozen in his tracks. “He couldn’t have known.” Thorin grumbled something unintelligible and Balin sighed. “I understand your reservations, but I would hope that given all that you’ve faced, you would be more understanding.”

“There is nothing to understand,” Thorin growled. “The halfling knows nothing of pain or loss. He doesn’t belong here. The wizard was mistaken in his choice.”

“We have yet to experience anything to truly test him,” Balin said reasonably. “We cannot judge him based on the small glimpse we had into his life. What has he done to disapprove himself to you?”

“Just look at him, Balin,” Thorin said, voice raising. “He does not need to be tested for me to know what he is made of.” Balin sighed, sound nearly drowned out by Bilbo’s own shaky breaths. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sting of tears.

“I see you will not be swayed tonight at any rate. But Thorin, Orian’s death has caused enough pain as is. I would ask that you not use my husband as a weapon again.” 

Balin was the first to return to the group and went to sleep very quickly. Bilbo lay sleepless for quite some time until he heard the rustle of underbrush. Bilbo’s eyes shot open. Thorin had returned to the fire, face set in a bitter scowl. The flickering orange flames illuminated the king’s face. There was a hush where each crackle from the fire, each leaf blowing in the wind was heard. Bilbo felt a chill run up his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. Seeming to feel Bilbo’s eyes on him, Thorin’s gaze flickered to the hobbit, expression carefully schooled into an unreadable mask. Bilbo held the dwarf king’s gaze from across the fire, feeling suddenly quite hot. He balled his fists and tried to scowl, but his guilty conscience would not let him. He looked away bitterly and rolled over, knowing that he was about to experience another sleepless night. As he settled himself into his blankets, he noticed Gandalf, who was eyeing him thoughtfully over his pipe, one eyebrow raised. Bilbo would have to be more careful, or Gandalf would know something was afoot. 

* * *

Balin was not a young dwarf. He had seen kingdoms rise and fall, rulers building themselves up from the ashes. He had faced many hardships, and seen great joy. Above all, Balin understood people. His role as advisor, though changed from the days of Thror’s rule -- rife with politics and fevered minds, had given him the helpful ability to read people. Understanding the motives of those around him came with great ease, their Company being no exception.

The group was an odd one, and Balin had spent a great deal of time analyzing the motivation behind each dwarf, such was his responsibility as advisor. Thorin needed to know if he could trust his fellows, and Balin had done his best to prove that he could. Some were there out of loyalty and devotion either to Thorin himself, or to another family member who had volunteered, among them being Dwalin, Bombur, Dori, Óin, and Glóin. Some were in it for the adventure, the chance to make a difference. Fíli, Kíli, Bofur, and Ori were young and excitable, and seemed to fit that bill perfectly. Bifur and Nori were slightly harder to pinpoint. Nori quite loudly proclaimed that he was doing it for the gold, and the gold alone, but there was something else. Balin suspected it was protectiveness over Ori, but he sensed that there was another factor that he was missing and had yet to discover. Bifur too, seemed to counteract himself, but Balin also knew that Bifur himself didn’t always understand his own motivations and decisions since the accident. 

Thorin was perhaps the most interesting. He had been working tirelessly for the majority of his life to fix the wrongs of his grandfather, to build a new home for his people, to take care of his family, and finally, to regain the home of his childhood. Balin could not help but wonder what it was Thorin thought he was fighting for, because truly, he already had a home. The Blue Mountains were more than the dwarves of Erebor could have ever hoped for, and Balin, and Dís made no secret of assuring Thorin as such. Thorin said he was searching for his home but Balin wondered if he was instead searching for somewhere to belong. Whatever was going on in the king’s head, even he himself did not know, and Balin was not sure what it would take to get Thorin to admit this to himself. He could only naïvely hope that they would retake Erebor and Thorin would find himself satisfied after a lifetime of restlessness, rather than find himself disappointed, never satiated.

His eyes wandered, as they had done several times since their initial meeting, upon Bilbo Baggins, who was riding several paces ahead of him, slouched deep in his saddle. The young hobbit was something of a mystery to Balin. He had not thought highly of him, when he had been ushered into the hobbit’s home at Bag End. Bilbo had seemed materialistic and a bit prone to worry. Entirely unremarkable. A liability, if anything. The next morning, Bilbo had been cold and distant, hardened into something entirely unrelated to the scurrying figure he had been the night before. Balin had equated it to fear, however, the hobbit’s attitude never wavered. As the days wore on, the bags under Bilbo’s eyes had become more and more prominent, but they displayed none of the panic or fear, or trivial discomfort that Balin had been expecting. There was a deeper set worry, a concern that flitted unwittingly across Bilbo’s face when he looked at other members of the group. As a general rule, Bilbo seemed to avoid looking or interacting with all of them, but he avoided Thorin and his nephews with extreme fervour. Balin would have thought it a strong dislike, had he not witnessed the single time that Bilbo had let his gaze fall upon the Durins one evening over supper. It had been the strangest thing, for the pain in Bilbo’s face, the rigidity in his entire body was unmistakable. Balin, of course, understood _concern_ for the younger dwarves, but Bilbo’s reaction was unexpected. Balin couldn’t quite understand it, for whenever Fíli and Kíli tried to talk to Bilbo, the hobbit all but ignored them, and Balin wasn’t sure if he had seen Bilbo and Thorin interact at all since the very first night in Bag End. They should mean nothing to the hobbit, truly none of them, but there was a strange familiarity with which he moved about the entire Company. He seemed to react to things before they happened or look for someone’s specific reaction to an event, or even a joke, as though he knew each dwarf individually. It was just the slightest of things. He would turn to someone before they began to speak, and he seemed to know how to dodge Fíli and Kíli’s trickery, impervious to Bofur’s loose lips. He even gave the impression of understanding, or at least guessing some of what Bifur was trying to communicate, where even some of the dwarves struggled with it. And even more strangely, was the hobbit’s inexplicable knowledge of the Battle of Azanulbizar. Although it was not an uncommon tale among dwarves, Balin was pressed to think of a hobbit historian who would have known such details. Master Baggins was a riddle wrapped up in a mystery, and Balin resolved to keep a close eye on him.

“You alright, lad?” He asked, coming up beside the hobbit, who jolted as though being woken from a deep slumber, though he was awake. “Have you been sleeping well?”

“I haven’t been sleeping at all,” Bilbo said waspishly, fists clenching around his reins with a grimace. 

“I meant no harm last night,” Balin said kindly. “Nor did Fíli or Kíli. Nor even Thorin, although it may not seem that way This is a harsh difference from your life in the Shire. We should have been more conscientious of the fact.”

“I hardly think it’s you who needs to apologize,” Bilbo said shortly, avoiding eye contact. “I overstepped. I never meant to belittle your pain.” Balin raised his eyebrows.

“Is that what’s troubling you?” He asked slowly, tone similar to one he would use when facing a frightened animal about to bolt. From the corner of his eye, Balin noticed Gandalf in front of them, and was sure the wizard was listening in.

“Well yes, but I also suffer from night terrors,” Bilbo admitted, then pursed his lips. “I told Master Oakenshield it wouldn’t be a problem and I don’t intend to go back on my word.” This was not an answer that Balin had anticipated and he thought he finally understood the sunken look in the hobbit’s eyes. He recognized it easily, for anyone that had lived past the battle of Azanulbizar had become acquainted with such a thing. Balin gave the hobbit an understanding look. This was not something he would push. He would let the burglar keep his secrets. For now. He decided to watch the hobbit more keenly, for what could a peace loving Shire-dweller like mister Baggins have experienced that caused such a haunted look?

“I understand,” he said after a moment, patting Bilbo on the shoulder. “I won’t pry.” Bilbo looked like he wanted to say something, but seemed to think better of it, giving Balin a clearly shakey nod. 

Thorin stood off by himself, smoking his pipe when Balin made his way over to his king. Thorin fixed his gaze on him expectantly.

“I spoke with mister Baggins today,” Balin began tentatively. Thorin did not react. “He mentioned that he suffers from night terrors.” 

“Yes, I witnessed one of his episodes,” Thorin said coolly. “He assured me it would not be a problem.”

“Yes, he told me much of the same. Only the lad hasn’t been sleeping,” Balin said, watching Thorin for his reaction. “He will not do us any good if when he should be fighting an enemy, he is fighting sleep.”

“It also won’t do to have him screaming out in the middle of the night, drawing orcs upon us as we sleep,” Thorin argued. 

“While that may be true, the boy still needs rest.” Thorin turned to look at Bilbo, who was sitting in front of the fire, unblinking. Balin knew that Thorin would see what he saw. Even from a distance, the bags under the halfling’s eyes were prominent, and he seemed to be barely holding himself upright. 

“Fine,” Thorin said. “Do what you must, but do not put yourself at a disadvantage. He knew what he was signing up for.” Balin nodded his understanding. He walked up to Bilbo and sat down next to him. The hobbit seemed barely aware of Balin’s presence next to him. 

“You need to get some rest, lad,” he said softly, not wanting to make the entire company aware of Bilbo’s issue. 

“I already told you that I --”

“You’ll have to sleep at some point, or you’ll drop dead.” Bilbo’s eyes snapped to Balin’s. “Now, here’s what we’ll do. I will take the first watch, while you sleep. If you show any signs of causing a disturbance, I’ll wake you.”

“I can’t ask you to sacrifice your own rest for me,” Bilbo said, a stubborn glint in his eye, doubtlessly trying to appear strong. His words came out as more of a whine, and Balin found himself wondering how young the hobbit really was. 

“You aren’t asking,” Balin said, placing his hand comfortingly on Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo took a moment before giving a sharp nod. 

“Thank you,” he said with a tentative smile. Balin felt his heart go out to their mystery of a burglar. Maybe he didn’t need to understand Bilbo to accept him. “And Balin, about the other night. I really would like to apolo-”

“It is forgiven, laddie.”

* * *

Days started to bleed together, the only thing that changed was the landscape. They had long since left the rolling hills and welcoming homes of the Shire behind them. Ahead of them, an endless expanse of hills, climbing steadily onward, dotted with dark trees and ruinous castles. The spring weather was unpredictable. Some days were overcast and muggy, some warm, and some were wet and cold. The only constants were the cottonwood that had started falling in early May and now coated the ground in white tufts that caused Bilbo’s allergies to act up, and the chill at night. The company huddled under their blankets as best as they could, but the damp air permeated every surface, leaving them soggy and cold until the mid morning sun was warm enough to dry them.

They hit a very unlucky string of days where the rain simply would not let up. On one of these days, they stopped for the night, and the camp was relatively quiet, pierced only by the occasional grumble or groan. Everyone had been soaked entirely through their clothes, and they had stripped themselves of their outer layers and hung them as close to their weak fire as possible in an attempt to dry them. Bilbo didn’t see the point. He knew that the rain wouldn’t let up for days, and that they would be laden down by wet clothes and the smell of damp pony until then. He also knew that the next night, the company would come across three stupid but hungry trolls.

Despite this knowledge, and the miserable weather, Bilbo felt well rested, for the first time in a long time. He had made it through the entire day without being overtaken by exhaustion, something that he had not managed since they left Bag End. Balin had stubbornly made sure that Bilbo got enough sleep each night, and after several days, Balin’s nearby presence alone was enough. This Balin would never understand, but Last Time, on the first of his many visits to Bag End after this very quest, the two of them had run into a very similar situation. The months following Bilbo’s own return to Bag End had seen his nightmares occur more and more frequently, and become so vivid that he would wake screaming, sure he was in the thick of battle. He would spend endless days and endless nights huddled on his bed with more candles than anyone would deem necessary, wrapped in blankets with a large mug of either coffee or spirits. Balin had been alarmed at first, but understanding, and he had explained that he used to experience them too. Bilbo had never fully shaken the dreams, but it had helped immensely.

Bilbo watched the flames flickering with a deep envy. The rain had mercifully lessened to a light drizzle, and the dwarves had settled around the fire after a late supper, though Bilbo didn’t dare join their ranks. He sat and watched them from afar, face set in a deep frown that had become his resting expression. It seemed that Bilbo had always been destined to die with frown lines. _When did I become such a sorry excuse of a hobbit?_

Bilbo found his eyes drawn to Thorin, as they so often were. Despite his internal protests, Bilbo longed for the camaraderie that the pair had shared near the end of their journey Last Time. The smiles of approval, so readily given, the warm comfort in the simplicity of sitting side by side in silence. He craved the soft rumble of laughter, and the way that Thorin’s eyes seemed to blaze with meaning as their eyes met across the fire. Private. Theirs alone. Strong and grounding hands on his shoulders. He felt the despair eat away at his stomach, an ache that would not be quenched by any amount of food or drink. If all went the way he planned this time around, these were things that the king and the hobbit would never share. 

“Best be getting some food in you,’ Bofur said, with a pitying smile, brandishing a bowl of hot stew. Bilbo couldn’t distinguish the meaty chunks, and opted not to ask what animal it came from. 

“Thank you,” Bilbo said with a sniff, avoiding Bofur’s eyes. The dwarf had been growing on Bilbo against his better judgement. There was just something light and _good_ about Bofur. They had become close on the journey Last Time, and Bofur had always proved to have a solid head on his shoulders, and a heart that was unmistakably in the right place. He was one of the dwarves who had come and spent time with Bilbo at Bag End on multiple occasions, and he had been the first one to get Bilbo to laugh, drink, and sing again after Erebor. While this was not the same Bofur, whom he had come to think of as one of his closest friends, he had the same easy nature and loud laughter, the same forgiving smiles and wordless support. It ate away at his conscience to not show Bofur the same kindness that he gave, but he couldn’t risk it. Bofur hid his emotions well behind a mask of humour, but Bilbo knew that the dwarf protected and lost fiercely. He would not put his friend through any unnecessary pain. This burden was his and his alone. 

That being said, Bilbo needed to come up with a plan. As of now, they had not experienced anything major, and as such, no great details had changed. When Bilbo thought of making any monumental changes, he would then spend several minutes weighing out the consequences and was often overwhelmed by how awry things could go. He thought of the trolls as an opportunity. This would be his chance to alter a rather insignificant event, to see the ripples the change brought. Needless to say, Bilbo was not looking forward to facing the three mountain trolls again. Once was enough for one hobbit, thank you very much. He also knew that the company needed to get to the troll hoard and reclaim the elvish blades. A pang of excitement went through him at the thought of his blade, _Sting_ , in his young, capable hands once more. Try as he might though, Bilbo had no idea how to go about besting the trolls, remembering how easily it had gone awry last time. Bilbo only hoped that he wouldn’t end up squashed beneath William the troll’s enormous left buttock, and promptly diced and cooked. 

  
  


The next day was no better. As they made camp, Bilbo kept a close watch on Gandalf. If he could prevent it, he would keep the wizard from leaving the dwarves, as a precaution. He watched Gandalf survey the wreckage of the old barn with a grim look, the overcast sky giving everything an ominous feeling.

“I think it would be wiser to move on,” Gandalf said to Thorin. Bilbo, who had been waiting for this argument, scurried to his side. “Let us make for the hidden valley.” Thorin shot the wizard a disdainful look

“I will not go near that place, Gandalf.”

“Whyever not? The elves could provide help. Food, rest, advice.”

“I do not seek their advice,” Thorin said, crossing his arms over his chest. Bilbo took this moment to interrupt.

“Actually, I think Gandalf is right.” Both Gandalf and Thorin threw him surprised looks. “If the elves can provide us with food and shelter, who are we to decline?”

“I will not ally myself with elves to satisfy the whims of a halfling who is missing his hearth and kitchen,” Thorin spat. Bilbo felt Gandalf’s eyes watch him, waiting for his response.

“Then you are putting us all at risk for the sake of your foolish pride,” Bilbo said, more calmly than he felt. He had felt Thorin’s wrath firsthand, and was not looking forward to being on the receiving end again. 

“Yes, and we have a map that we cannot read. Lord Elrond would help us,” Gandalf said quickly, eyes still on Bilbo, as Thorin looked like he was going to argue further.

“Help? A dragon attacks Erebor. What help came from the Elves? Orcs plunder Moria, desecrate our sacred halls, the Elves looked on and did nothing! You ask me to seek out the very people who betrayed my grandfather, who betrayed my father.” Thorin’s eyes were blazing with fury.

“These are not the same elves,” Bilbo said, stamping his foot angrily. “And you are not your father, nor are you your grandfather. If you refuse Lord Elrond’s help, you are dooming us all. I suppose it’s too much for you to have noticed, but our rations are slim. We need food or we will starve.”

“This is not for you to say, halfling,” Thorin said, turning on Bilbo. “You are only here because the wizard chose you. If it were up to me, you would have never left the Shire.”

“I’d rather stay in the Shire than serve a bitter old dwarf who refuses to see reason.” Bilbo turned on his heel and stalked off angrily, not looking back. “I’ve had enough of dwarves for one day.” He knew the eyes of the company followed him as he went. The shocked silence rang in his ears louder than the merry laughter of a previous life he so desperately wished to forget. 

“Just where do you think you’re going, Bilbo Baggins?” Gandalf called after him. 

“Leave him.” Thorin’s voice was cold, carried back to Bilbo on the breeze. Bilbo’s stomach, which seemed to be perpetually in knots, gave an uncomfortable jolt at the words thrown so callously after him. No matter, he had the trolls to deal with anyhow, he could dwell on his own sadness once everyone was safe. Night was falling quickly, so he made his way to where he knew the trolls would have set up their fire. He very quickly became aware of footsteps following him, and rounded angrily on two dwarves.

“I thought I said I’d had enough of you lot,” Bilbo said, careful to keep his voice quiet lest he alert the trolls to their presence.

“Well,” said Fíli reasonably, “when you said you’d had enough of dwarves-”

“We knew you didn’t mean us,” said Kíli brightly. The brother’s linked an arm in each of Bilbo’s and sandwiched him between them. Bilbo’s blood froze in his veins at the contact and little blind spots swam in his vision. He was helpless as they frogmarched him forwards. “And besides, we noticed you left before finishing your dinner.”

“Well, we finished it, of course, but we figured we would let you know,” Fíli said jauntily. 

“It _is_ the thought that counts, after all,” Kíli said. “So where are we going?”

“ _We_ are not going anywhere,” said Bilbo, regaining use of his limbs. “ _I_ am going to sit alone and have a smoke.” He tried to wrestle his arms from their grasps, but it was like trying to bend iron. He fought to keep his breaths even.

“Good thing I brought my pipe,” Fíli said, brandishing an elegant wooden pipe in his free hand. 

“Fine,” Bilbo said. He would have to get over his fears eventually. And besides, there was plenty of time to spare, and going well before dawn would do him no good. He would have to wait around anyways. “Just one bowl.” Kíli pulled out a pouch that Bilbo recognized instantly as tobacco from the Blue Mountains.

“Oh, none of that Blue Mountain pocket lint, put it away,” Bilbo said, pulling out his own prized pouch of Longbottom Leaf and stuffing a pinch into each of their pipes.

“What is this?” Kíli asked throatily after his first puff, trying and failing to hide his coughs.

“Pipeweed,” Bilbo said exasperatedly as the young dwarves puff eagerly on their pipes. 

“This isn’t like any pipeweed I’ve ever had,” said Fíli.

“That’s because you dwarves have terrible taste in pipeweed,” Bilbo said haughtily. 

“Who’s sharing their weed with you?” Kíli asked tactlessly. 

“Bet it’s Bofur,” Fíli muttered under his breath to Kíli, who snorted.

“Never you mind,” Bilbo said, though it would have made more sense to agree with Fíli. “So if you didn’t bring me dinner, what are you doing here?” The boys shot each other a shifty look. They seemed to carry an entire discussion in just a glance. Finally, Kíli seemed to cave.

“Well, we were just wondering what you did to make uncle hate you so much.”

“If we could make him avoid us the way he avoids you, our lives would be much easier,” Fíli added, always the voice of reason. 

“If I spent all my time trying to figure out what I’ve done to upset your uncle, my hair would turn grey.”

“Aren’t you already greying, old man?” Kíli teased.

“I’ll have you know that I’m younger than you, so if you’re calling anyone ‘old man’, it should be yourself,” Bilbo retorted.

“That can’t be true,” Fíli objected, smacking his lips together experimentally. “Does anyone have any water?”

“But then how old are you?” Kíli asked. 

“One hu-- fifty,” Bilbo said, nearly giving them the age at which he had died, rather than the age he wore on his body. 

“I thought you said you were younger than us. Still, one-fifty is a good age,” Fíli said. “Not nearly as good as eighty-two, mind you.” Fíli tipped his pipe in Bilbo’s direction with a grin.

“No, no, you misheard me,” Bilbo said, shaking his head. “Fifty.” 

“But,” Kíli said, mouth agape. “But you’re younger than Gimli.” 

“Yes, by more than a decade, unless I misheard Glóin,” Bilbo said stuffily. “And close your mouth, you’ll catch flies,” he added, trying to divert attention from his slip up. Kíli stared blankly for a moment, then snapped his mouth shut. 

“Why would uncle let you come but not cousin Gimli?” Kíli demanded, looking affronted. 

“Well, hobbits age differently than dwarves, you see,” Bilbo explained with a hint of impatience. “So don’t you go thinking for one second that I’m some helpless child. I may be younger than you, but I’m much more mature.”

“Yeah, but you’re far shorter,” Fíli said seriously. Beside him, Kíli let out a rush of air from his nostrils as he was overtaken by a fit of laughter. Bilbo chuckled softly and shook his head. 

“Alright, that’s quite enough,” Bilbo said, suddenly very uneasy with his own comfort. “You two had best head back to camp. Thorin will worry.”

“Think there’s any leftover dinner?” Kíli asked, seemingly chewing on air.

“Bofur always has snacks,” Fíli said with a dopey grin. Kíli’s face broke into a luminous smile. 

“You’re right. I bet if we ask nicely, he’ll share.”

“Good night, boys,” Bilbo said, shooing them away. Kíli walked away instantly but Fíli lingered for a moment, putting his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. 

“I’m glad that this went well,” he said gently. “I didn’t think you wanted anything to do with us.” Bilbo’s stomach lurched painfully and he had to force himself to hold the eye contact. 

“I- I- Yes I’m glad also,” Bilbo choked out with an unnatural smile. Fíli squeezed Bilbo’s shoulder and turned away. As their footsteps got farther away, Bilbo held back a dry sob, digging his fingernails into his palms. The boys’ faces swam in his blurry vision and he knotted his fingers into his curls. “Pull yourself together,” he muttered aloud, emphasizing each word by stamping his foot.

When his heart finally settled, he made his way to where he knew the trolls to be. He told himself firmly that it was a good thing the boys distracted him, for if he had gotten captured by trolls as early as he had planned to search them out, he could have easily had the time to be fully skinned, or cooked alive and eaten. Shivering, he crouched down, just on the edge of where the fire touched, and stayed there until his legs were cramping and he struggled to keep his balance. The longer he watched the trolls, the less frightened he became. They were far from intelligent. Their only real threat was their brute strength, but even then, Bilbo knew they would have to catch him first. He had escaped a dragon, what were a couple of trolls? His small size and relative speediness compared to them, coupled with not needing to watch after thirteen dwarves made him believe that this would be easy.

“What’s that over there?” called the largest troll, Bert, he had learned in his time hiding in the bushes. 

“What?” replied Tom, another troll, squinting. Bert was pointing towards where Daisy and Bongo had broken away from the other ponies, and were grazing peacefully.

“Is it goat?” William asked with a grimace and a wet sniff. Goat did not agree with him. 

“Well, go on then,” Tom said, rapping Bert across the thigh with a stick. Bert grumbled, but stood up and lumbered towards the ponies. Bilbo shuffled in the bushes, wincing as Daisy cried out in shock when the troll’s massive, meaty hand encircled her flank. He would not let the trolls eat their ponies. _They will be fine_ , he thought over and over again as Bert lugged the animals into a little enclosure. 

“Mutton yesterday, mutton today, and blimey, if it don’t look like mutton again tomorrer,” William lamented. Mutton was much too similar to goat for his liking.

“Bill you booby, these ain’t mutton. That’s a pony, that is,” Tom said smartly. 

“Well I don’t like horse any more ‘an mutton,” Bill grumbled.

“It’s yer own fault for bringin’ us here,” Bert said. “Never a stinking bit o’ man-flesh in these parts.” At Bert’s words, William got to his feet with an angry cry and lumbered towards his companion. Bert was much bigger than William, but William was lighter on his feet. As light as a troll could be, anyway. Bilbo watched as Bill and Bert threw punches and Tom rapped them with his stick with a gleeful smile. A plan started to form in Bilbo’s head. 

A good deal later, with Bilbo doing his best to keep track of time, he decided that it was time to act. 

“Shut it, you lot.” Bert, the loser of the aforementioned fight said, still unhappy about his humiliation. “We best be gettin’ inside soon, unless yer fancy turning to stone.” That shut Bill and Tom up quickly. They started to pack their stuff up and Bilbo knew it was time for him to act. 

“Hello,” he said cheerfully, standing on the edges of the firelight, just out of reach of their large, meaty hands. 

“What is it?” Bill was eying Bilbo with a suspicious look.

“I dunno, do I?” Bert said with a shrug.

“Can we eat it?” asked Tom.

“Oh, I’m sure you could,” Bilbo said, still smiling. “Wouldn’t be much more than a mouthful though.”

“I reckon ‘e’s right,” Bill said, eyeing the hobbit with disinterest. 

“Now, what I could do, is cook you up some pony,” Bilbo said, shooting Daisy and Bongo a mental apology, and hoping they couldn’t understand what he was about to say. “See the trick to ponies is that you have to cook them just right, otherwise they end up tasting like goat,” he said innocently. Bill looked intrigued.

“And yer can do that?” He asked, licking his lips.

“I can most certainly do that,” Bilbo said with a self-assured nod.

“‘Ang on then, what are you?” Bert asked, brandishing his filleting knife at Bilbo, who tried his best not to flinch

“I am a cook,” Bilbo said, clasping his hands behind his back.

“I say we kill ‘im and cook ‘im up with the ponies,” said Tom hungrily.

“But he says he can make it taste better ‘an goat,” Bill said, turning on Tom instantly. 

“Neither of us has a problem with goat. You’re the picky one.” 

“Maybe he’ll finally shut up if this ‘ere cook can show us the right way to do it,” Bert said fairly.

“Really Bert,” Tom said in rage. “Weren’t you just sayin’ how it’s his fault we’ve not had nothing good to eat in ages?” 

“Oh yeah,” Bert said stupidly, rounding on Bill again. 

“See here,” Bill said. “If you hadn’t made such a mess of that farmer, maybe more folks’d be by and we’d have more to eat.” 

“You mean to tell me it was ‘im who ate the farmer?” Tom yelled. “You said ‘e was already dead. Did your fat arse eat ‘im yerself?”

“You said you wouldn’t tell ‘im,” Bert said, shooting Bill a glare. Bilbo stood back and watched the trolls argue with a self satisfied smirk. With any luck, the sun would be rising shortly, and all he had to do was watch.

  
  


Back at camp, most of the company was fast asleep, with the exception of Thorin, Balin, and Gandalf. At the wizard’s insistence, the group had stuck close together that night, no one was to leave the camp for anything. The exception was Bilbo, who had stormed off hours earlier, and had not since returned. Fíli and Kíli had followed him, but they had come back recently, in quite a funny mood, giggling about how Bilbo wanted some time to his thoughts. Thorin shot another look towards the forest that the hobbit had disappeared into. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was concerned. The halfling was far too stubborn for his own good, though more capable than he had initially seemed. Still, Thorin couldn’t help but think that their burglar had gotten himself into trouble, and it would be Thorin’s fault because he’d been the reason the hobbit had left in the first place. Thorin had already had to deal with an angry wizard first hand that night, and he had been avoiding his cold gaze and petty remarks with growing weariness. He could only imagine how Gandalf would react if the halfling had gotten himself killed or injured on Thorin’s watch.

“Go find him,” Balin said as the king turned to look to the forest for the tenth time. “He’s not had it easy. I think it would be good of you to extend some kindness to the poor lad.” Thorin did not reply, but turned to Gandalf.

“Is he alright?” He asked, not expecting a straight answer, but trying his luck anyways.

“Perhaps,” Gandalf said, expression stony. “But perhaps not. Are you going to neglect my burglar so, Thorin Oakenshield? I would have expected an heir of Durin to have more honour than that.”

“Fine,” Thorin said with a huff. He stood up and stalked off towards the forest, muttering about meddling wizards and grumpy halflings. He walked for just a couple minutes before realizing that he had absolutely no idea where the hobbit had gotten off to. He felt a prickle down his spine and instantly had one hand ready on his sword. He sped up, but it was so dark that it was nearly pointless. He cursed under his breath and kept walking. Before long, the unmistakable presence of a fire made itself known ahead of him. He crept towards the light, sword drawn. 

What he saw around the fire made his blood grow cold. Three full sized trolls were gathered around it, arguing loudly, and Bilbo stood off to the side, completely out in the open. Thorin took one more step and Bilbo’s eyes snapped onto the dwarf, panic flooding his face. Seeing that fear, Thorin sprung into action, charging into the clearing and yelling as loudly as he could, brandishing his sword menacingly. The trolls turned to look at Thorin with interest. He took their surprise as an opportunity, running up to the closest troll and making a deep gash in its calf. He rolled to avoid another’s grasp and stuck it in the behind. 

“Thorin, n-no,” Bilbo cried, seemingly paralyzed on the spot. “Oh, blast it,” he said then, scrunching his face up angrily. With a great sigh, Bilbo launched himself at the nearest troll, trying to wrestle a knife about as big as the hobbit himself, from the troll’s clutches. 

“I thought you was going to cook us supper,” whined one of the trolls. Thorin stuck his sword into its foot, causing the troll to howl in pain, knocking Bilbo to the side. The troll, however, was not as hindered by the injury as Thorin had hoped and grabbed Thorin around the waist, dangling him over the fire. 

“N-no, stop! Please stop!” Bilbo yelled, colour draining from his face, scrambling out of reach of the largest, nastiest looking troll. “P-put him down.” Thorin wanted to yell at Bilbo. _Run, get the others!_ , but Bilbo seemed frozen, eyes fixed on Thorin with an expression that made the dwarf deeply uncomfortable. There was a depth there that did not belong.

“See, I told you Bill, we’ll make a good stew out of ‘im yet,” said one of the trolls, eyeing Bilbo with a sinister gleam in his eye. 

“Are there any more of yer?” Asked Bill.

“N-no, nope,” Bilbo stuttered, eyes locked on Thorin. “It’s just us.” Thorin met Bilbo’s eyes and tried desperately to convey the direness of the situation. The _need_ for backup. Why wasn’t the hobbit doing anything?

“Are you sure?” said the biggest one. “I quite like dwarf.” Thorin let out an enraged cry and bit into the hand of his captor, in a mad attempt at escape. He barely had time to register the foul taste on his tongue before he plummeted towards the roaring flames, heat licking his feet painfully. Bilbo let out an anguished cry, launching himself foolishly towards the king. In one heart stopping moment, enormous hands reached out in mid air and both dwarf and hobbit were caught in iron grasps.

“‘ere Bert, you take ‘em.” Bert, who was already holding Bilbo, took Thorin from the whiny troll and threw one of them over each of his shoulders, his grip painful on their feet. From this angle, Thorin could see his abandoned weapons lying on the ground, far out of reach, and cursed quietly. Thorin turned to face Bilbo. The colour had flooded rapidly back to his face, whether that be from anger or from the blood rushing towards his head, Thorin did not know. He did know that the hobbit looked completely livid.

“You absolute fucking napsack,” Bilbo said in a harsh whisper. “I had it under control.”

“You call that under control?” Thorin asked, taken aback. “You were about to become their meal,” Thorin argued. 

“No, I wasn’t,” Bilbo said harshly. “I had a plan, and it was about to work until you burst in like an utter moron.” Thorin had the sudden urge to punch something. Couldn’t this idiot halfling see that he had been _this_ close to becoming an appetizer? He should count himself lucky that Thorin had bothered at all. 

“I was trying to keep them from eating you!” 

“Would you shut up, I’m trying to think,” Bilbo said, shutting his eyes firmly.

“What are you doing?” Thorin asked, completely taken aback by the absurdity of the situation. 

“I just told you, I’m trying to come up with a plan. Someone’s got to, and I don’t trust it to be you.” Thorin was too confused and angry to reply. 

“Now what should we do wi’ these two?” 

“I say we squash ‘em and dice ‘em and add ‘em to a stew,” Bert said excitedly. Thorin could feel the vibrations of the troll’s voice throughout his body.

“I’ve ‘ad enough of stew,” said Bill.

“What would you ‘ave me do then, Bill,” said the last troll, voice dripping with sarcasm. The clearing was silent for a moment. “That’s what I thought.” There were several loud footsteps and Thorin was ripped from Bert’s shoulder and promptly had his hands and feet bound. Bilbo swiftly followed, being thrown roughly to the ground. He let out a little wheeze before struggling into a standing position. 

“I really wouldn’t eat him, if I were you,” Bilbo said with disgust, looking contemptuously at Thorin. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “He’s got worms. Nasty business, it is. If you eat him, you’ll have worms coming out your behind for months.” Despite the ridiculous situation, Thorin felt heat rise to his ears and tried to keep himself from glaring. This was juvenile, but Thorin did not have a better idea. 

“I don’t like worms,” said Bill with a grimace.

“William Huggins, you don’t like anything,” said Bert with a roar. 

“Do too,” Bill replied, anger colouring his face. 

“It’s true, it is,” said Tom. “You never like anything I cook. I’d like to see you try an’ make anything better.”

“I don’t think you’d make a very fine cook, Bill,” said Bilbo apologetically. “It takes sterner stuff. A true man of the people. A leader. Tom is the perfect fit.” Thorin tried to keep his expression neutral. Bilbo’s bullshit might occupy the trolls for some time, but they would need a solid escape plan… If only he could think of one.

“Now look ‘ere,” said Bill, stricken. “I could make a stew finer ‘an Tom’s.”

“A man of the people? Tom ain’t the leader, I am,” Bert cried. Tom let out a cruel bark of laughter. 

“It takes more ‘an size to be a leader,” Tom crowed. Thorin looked at the hobbit. Bilbo’s face was one again ashen, and his eyes were flickering between the trolls, and a spot in the distance, barely hidden anticipation written on his face. He had positioned himself ever so slightly ahead of Thorin, and was leaning towards him subtly. It seemed innocent enough, except for the fact that Thorin had done this so many times with Fíli and Kíli. Positioned himself between the boys and danger. Why would Bilbo do this?

“More ‘an a brute, too,” Bill said with a glare. “You need brains, an’ neither of you idiots have none.” Thorin could not tell who threw the first punch, but the trolls were suddenly engaged in an all out vicious brawl. Thorin turned to Bilbo with urgency. 

“Halfling,” he whispered. This was the distraction they needed to escape. Bilbo did not seem to hear him, his eyes still focused on a spot above the trolls’ heads. “Bilbo,” he hissed, furious. 

“Dawn take you all, and be stone to you,” came a booming voice on the horizon. There was a loud crash, and light came pouring into the clearing as a large boulder cracked in half. Thorin thought he heard Bilbo let out a relieved laugh, but when he turned to the hobbit, his face was twisted into a frown. 

“Took you long enough,” Bilbo said waspishly. 

“Expecting me, were you?” Gandalf called down from his perch on the rock. 

“ _Hoping_ , is all,” said Bilbo with a sarcastic laugh. Thorin felt like he was missing out on some twisted joke. “Care to untie us?” Gandalf’s booming laughter did nothing to ease Thorin’s nerves. The king flung the ropes from himself and grabbed his sword with as much dignity as he could manage when Gandalf finally untied him.

“My dear fellow, however did this happen?” Gandalf asked gently. Bilbo let out an annoyed huff.

“It’s complicated,” Bilbo said, stretching his wrists as Gandalf loosened the bindings. “If you don’t mind, I’d very much like a bit of food first, as I didn’t get any supper.” Thorin felt guilt gnaw at him once again, but pushed it down as Gandalf set off to release the ponies. Thorin’s mind was racing. He still could not make sense of what Bilbo had been doing talking to the trolls before his botched rescue attempt. But he could also acknowledge that without Bilbo, Thorin probably would have been eaten. On the other hand, if the halfling hadn’t wandered off on his own, Thorin would never have left camp in the first place. He let out an angry sigh and rubbed a hand down his face.

“Are you alright?” Bilbo asked, snapping his eyes to the dwarf with unbridled concern.

“I’m fine,” Thorin said with a huff. Bilbo’s worry set him on edge. Something in his eyes made the dwarf distinctly uncomfortable. “You should have been more careful out there.” Bilbo’s face twisted into a grimace.

“Excuse me? I saved your sorry ass.”

“You almost got us both killed, that’s what you did,” Thorin said with a snarl. “You got lucky this time.”

“Got lucky,” Bilbo muttered under his breath with a bitter laugh, kicking at a leafy green plant. “That’s a new one.” Thorin grimaced. He hadn’t meant to be so harsh, and in all honesty, he should have given the hobbit more credit. Bilbo was not a fighter. He did not even have a weapon. The way he dealt with the trolls was smart. Thorin would not have thought to buy for time in the way the hobbit had. Where Thorin was rage and an eagerness to fight, Bilbo was all sharp wit. He was more comfortable talking his way out of things than fighting. There was something to be admired in that, although it did not agree with the exiled king. Thorin knew that that would not always be an option and felt the icy claws of fear grasp him harder than any troll could. This had been much too close. Thorin did not like being helpless, but above that, his biggest fear was having a member of the company die and not be able to do anything about it. They were his responsibility. As their king, and as the one who had asked them to put their own lives at risk to reclaim their homeland. Even though he held no love for the halfling, Thorin felt the rumblings of responsibility, and something in him knew that he was not getting rid of the hobbit any time soon. Perhaps he _should_ follow Balin’s advice and show the hobbit a little less animosity.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo called to the wizard. “If they can’t be out in the light, do you think they have a cave nearby?” Gandalf looked at Bilbo with barely concealed delight.

“My dear boy, I should very much hope so.” Gandalf said. 

“Shouldn’t we wake the others?” asked Bilbo as Gandalf started walking deeper into the forest.

“Let us find the hoard first,” said Gandalf with a mysterious look that seemed to only make sense to Bilbo, who paled in response. “Allow them to rest. Something tells me they will need it.” The wizard’s pace was quick, but Thorin had a much easier time navigating the forest with the bright rays of dawn peeking through the foliage. They walked in silence, Bilbo slightly in front of Thorin and Gandalf. He didn’t seem to be paying much attention to where he was going. His steps were small and uneven, his eyes downcast. Thorin did not need to see his face to know that the dark circles the hobbit had recently evaded, were once again, sunken deeply into his face. 

“Could this be it?” Bilbo asked, turning around to face Thorin and Gandalf. Thorin blinked sluggishly. How Bilbo had seen the enormous stone door while in the state he had been, would remain a mystery to Thorin. While large, it blended in quite well with the side of the hill within which it resided.

“I do think you are right, Master Burglar,” Gandalf said with satisfaction. 

“How do we open it?” Thorin asked, putting a hand against the thick door and pushing against it. 

“Ah, I think I might be able to help with that,” said Bilbo, one hand fiddling with his pocket nervously. With his other hand, he brandished a large, crude key. Gandalf shot Bilbo an appraising look. “I nicked it from Bert when he had us over his shoulders.” Thorin looked at the hobbit incredulously. How had he managed to do that? They hadn’t exactly been free to move around, but then again, Bilbo’s movements were much more subtle than Thorin’s own.

“We’ll make a fine burglar of you yet, Bilbo Baggins,” said Gandalf fondly. Bilbo did not seem to appreciate the praise, and grimaced, avoiding Gandalf’s eyes. He opened the doors to the cave and started coughing uncontrollably. Once he had regained his composure, he walked into the darkness confidently. Thorin shook his head and followed behind Bilbo, keeping his sword drawn. He grimaced but carefully schooled his features to show indifference to the foul stench. The air was thick with dust and decay. There were half eaten corpses crawling with insects, skeletons that looked like they’d been there longer than Bilbo had lived. There was food there too, and the three of them set about trying to find any that hadn’t turned. Bilbo continued into the cave with unexpected ease.

“Gandalf, Master Oakenshield,” Bilbo cried, voice echoing loudly. “Down this way.” Thorin picked his way over skeletons and jagged rocks. Bilbo was standing among treasure, the light from Gandalf’s staff bouncing off the pieces of gold and dancing on the hobbit’s face, lighting up his bronzed hair. Bilbo stepped to the side and Thorin’s gaze zeroed in on three blades, delicate, yet deadly in their make. He picked one up and looked at it with awe. 

“These blades were not made by any troll,” he breathed. Gandalf picked another up with interest.

“Nor were they made by any smith among men,” the wizard said, squinting at the sword. He unsheathed it and read the inscription. “These were forged in Gondolin, by the High Elves, of the First Age. You could not wish for a finer blade.” Thorin’s gut churned unpleasantly, but he resisted the urge to drop it, grudgingly placing the blade at his hip, where it dangled, light and balanced. He could not help but appreciate the expert make of the sword, despite its unsavory origins. His eyes fell onto the last blade, small in size, but also undoubtedly elvish. He felt the hobbit watching him as he picked it up and examined it. Bilbo’s eyes lingered on it with an indistinguishable expression.

“You take it,” Thorin said gruffly, thrusting the blade at Bilbo, whose face morphed into confusion. 

“I -- thank you,” Bilbo said, gripping it tightly. He handled it with an unexpected ease, and Thorin couldn’t help but think that he had made the right choice in handing it over to their burglar. It was perfect in size for the rather small hobbit, and it seemed to fit right into his small, delicate hands. It would be much too small for any of the others, Thorin reasoned with himself.

“Your wit won’t get you everywhere,” Thorin said. “You need to be able to defend yourself.”

“I will wear it with honour,” said Bilbo with an underused smile. Thorin felt a pleased bubble in his stomach and fought off a smile.

“Let’s hope you know how to use it when the time comes.”

“I think I’ll manage,” said Bilbo with a chuckle. Somehow, Thorin did not doubt him. 

Bilbo, Thorin, and Gandalf wasted no further time in waking their comrades. After feasting themselves on the remaining edible food in the troll hoard, they quickly set about burying the treasure. 

“For later,” Bofur said with a wink, arms full of assorted goodies. 

“Aye, a long term deposit,” Glóin said with a cackle, filling a chest to the brim with coin. 

* * *

The company’s spirits were light, packs and bellies full for the first time in days, but a dark cloud followed Bilbo like a plague. His experiment with changing the timeline had not gone well, to say the least. For one, he had severely miscalculated when the sun would rise, allowing him and Thorin to be easily captured. Additionally, having Thorin involved had not only been one of the only things he _hadn’t_ wanted to do, but there were so many risks that had been involved. None of the others had known where they were. Who knows what could have happened before they came looking. Their bones could have easily joined those rotting in the hoard, never to see the light of day again. Bilbo felt a chill down his spine at the thought. 

Above all, Bilbo’s mind kept replaying Thorin handing him Sting. Something untouched in him had purred with satisfaction, and a small and greedy part of him had coiled up inside, refusing to go away. Why should he forsake his friendship with the king, he thought selfishly. _I should be able to spend my last months with friends. Have I not earned that much?_ No, no he had not earned that. And it did not matter, for if Bilbo were to act on his selfish whims, Thorin would end up dead again, and Bilbo would rather die than live another broken life. 

“Something’s coming,” Thorin’s urgent voice broke through Bilbo’s haze and he cursed himself for his oversight. He ran to the edge of the forest, praying that the ponies hadn’t bolted yet, but they were gone.

“You accursed idiot of a hobbit,” he swore under his breath. He ran back to the group, who were all stock still, weapons at the ready. Thorin glared, clearly demanding to know where he had gone, and Fíli’s eyes followed his movements observantly. Bilbo ignored them and waited for the arrival of Radagast. 

“Thieves! Fire! Murder!” Radagast yelled, bursting into the clearing on a sleigh pulled by several extremely large and muscular rabbits. The dwarves were poised to fight, but Radagast seemed oblivious to their weapons, his eyes fixed on Gandalf.

“Radagast. It’s Radagast the Brown!” Gandalf said, expression lightening. He put his sword away and most of the dwarves hesitantly followed his lead. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I was looking for you, Gandalf. Something’s wrong. Something’s terribly wrong.”

“Yes?” Gandalf’s voice was urgent, but Bilbo, who couldn’t possibly bring himself to care about whatever wizard problem was afoot, hardly paid attention, concerned about the upcoming warg hunt, in which they were the prize.

“Just give me a minute. Um…Oh! I had a thought and now I’ve lost it. It was…it was right there, on the tip of my tongue! Oh! It’s not a thought at all! It’s a silly old… stick insect.” Radagast opened his mouth in an off, disjointed fashion, uncovering a full-sized stick insect sitting on his tongue. Gandalf gave his friend a patient smile and removed the insect from his mouth. Radagast clicked his tongue a couple of times, then nodded, smiling at the bug as Gandalf set it down on a tree. He then turned abruptly to Gandalf, expression morphing into panic. 

“The Greenwood is sick, Gandalf. A darkness has fallen over it, nothing grows anymore. At least nothing good. The air is foul decay, but worse are the webs.”

Bilbo did not bother listening. He kept Sting drawn and eyed their surroundings, ready for the warg scouts to break through at any moment. He did not feel Thorin’s eyes on him, nor did he see the king’s thoughtful expression as he pulled Orcrist out of his own belt, mirroring the hobbit’s defensive stance. Then the air was split by several nightmarish howls.

“Warg scouts,” Bilbo said, ignoring Gandalf’s calculating look. “A pack will be upon us in minutes.” The wizard knew that something was afoot with their burglar, and Bilbo could no longer hide it **.** He had been all too aware of the wizard’s eyes following him, far more than he had Last Time. It had started off curious but suspicious. Now, there was only confusion, and a quite obvious hint of annoyance. Bilbo had not covered his tracks well enough for the meddling wizard.

The dwarves scrambled to arm themselves, some with more ease than others. Bilbo realized that for some of them, this was their first brush with real danger. He had no more time to think as the first warg launched itself right on top of Bilbo. The familiar bloody, animalistic scent filled Bilbo’s nostrils and he felt the beast’s crusty, matted fur against his skin. Sting had been knocked from his hands at the impact, and it lay mere inches from his fingers. He fought to keep the warg’s mashing teeth from his face, its breath warm and deadly on the palm of his left hand. His other hand scrabbling for his sword. Finally, his fingers came into contact with the cool metal of Sting, and he grasped it hard, plunging it into the warg’s side. It recoiled at the impact, then let out another yelp as one of Kíli’s arrows sunk into its skull. Bilbo sprung shakily to his feet and felt all eyes on him.

“Are you alright, lad?” asked Óin, the healer’s eyes scanning Bilbo for injuries.

“I’m fine,” Bilbo said, fighting to keep the tremor from his voice. He had not come this close to death so early Last Time, and he wished he knew why that had happened. More immediately, he wished his pulse would slow and his hands would stop sweating. He rubbed them on his pants and took a deep breath, hoping his nerves were obvious only to himself.

“Who did you tell about your quest, beyond your kin?” Gandalf asked, turning harshly on Thorin, who stood over another dead warg that he had just killed, wiping his blade on the beast’s fur.

“No one,” Thorin said defensively.

“Who did you tell?!”

“No one, I swear,” Thorin said, more firmly. “What in Durin’s name is going on?”

“You are being hunted.”

“We have to get out of here,” Dwalin said, grabbing Ori gruffly by the arm, as if he were a misbehaving child. He wriggled out of Dwalin’s grasp quickly, and Nori stepped forward, angry eyes fixed on Dwalin.

“Small problem with that,” Bilbo said with a grimace, interrupting Nori, who was clearly about to give Dwalin a piece of his mind. “The ponies have escaped.” Thorin cursed under his breath.

“I’ll draw them off,” said Radagast, as firmly as the little wizard could manage.

“These are Gundabad wargs. They will outrun you,” Gandalf said urgently. 

“These are Rhosgobel rabbits,” said Radagast, a steely glint in his eyes. “I’d like to see them try.” With that, he sped off with surprising grace, the rabbits moving fast, even for Bilbo, who had seen them do so before. 

“What are we waiting for,” Glóin asked. “Let’s go!”

  
  



	3. Elven Hospitality and Skippers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is the break that everyone needs... sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just spent two weeks in the wilderness in Alberta, so if there is a bunch of random scenery, it's because of that.
> 
> Also, I have two shoutouts to make for this chapter. 
> 
> Firstly, to Fantasy Name Generators, because I have used this a billion times, and it has yet to fail me.
> 
> Secondly, to my sister. She is the smartest person I know, and this would 100% not exist without her. She never fails to give me feedback, ideas, support, and laughter. 
> 
> On to the chapter!

_ It would be just like me to skewer myself on my own damn sword while running from orcs, _ Bilbo thought as he narrowly avoided stumbling over a rock, sword held tightly in his right hand. His breath was coming fast and hard, and he cursed (not for the first time) his first fifty years of inactivity in Bag End. It seemed at every turn, they came across the tail end of the orcs, who, sure enough, had not yet caught up to Radagast. Bilbo was grateful for the boulders that they ran between, offering them shelter from the eyes of the orcs. It was an agonizingly challenging process with fifteen of them. Each second felt like one closer to death, and Bilbo tried his absolute hardest to remember which of these Valar forsaken rocks was the one that sheltered the winding pathway to Rivendell. He had only taken it the one time, as he had been escorted in by Gandalf, or even Elrond himself every other time he had found himself at the valley of Imladris.

Suddenly, he was sure he had spotted it. The rock was not too far from where they were currently sheltering, not looking out of the ordinary at all, except for a rather unusual shadow at the base where Bilbo knew he would find the passageway. He saw Gandalf eyeing it too, and felt relief wash over him. He was about to dart towards it, but a hand on his arm stopped him. Fíli put his finger to his lips quietly and pointed towards the top of the boulder. Bilbo’s stomach dropped. How could he have forgotten this orc. The very reason they had had such a close brush Last Time. An ugly, brutish orc, riding a snarling, panting warg stalked the length of the boulder above them, and the Company pressed close to the rock face. Before he could stop himself, Bilbo’s hand launched onto Kíli’s bow just before the youngest Durin released an arrow towards the orc. He suddenly felt himself at the mercy of several angry glares, but to his relief, the dwarves stayed quiet, though the tension was palpable. After several moments, the warg turned away, and they could hear its heavy footfalls disappearing. He let out a shaky breath and avoided everyone’s eyes. He had bought them the time they needed, and he would not be made to feel guilty for it. He remembered the disaster Last Time. Loud cries from the warg and orc respectively, refusing to die without a fight, and the panic as throngs of orcs had descended upon them, drawn by the wails of their slain comrades. Yes, Bilbo had made a change for the better this time, but what would now change because of it? 

A familiar horn sounded in the distance and Bilbo felt relief flood him.  _ Elrond. _ The dwarves stayed flat against the rock as the sounds of battle echoed around them. An arrow whizzed by and Thorin pried it from the dirt, his face twisting into a grimace.

“Elves,” He spat, throwing the arrow down as though burned. “Was this your plan all along, Tharkûn?” Thorin demanded, glaring at Gandalf reproachfully. 

“I can honestly say that  _ this _ was not,” said Gandalf. Bilbo would have rolled his eyes if he could focus on anything other than regulating his raging gasps for breath. He knew that Gandalf had always intended to guide them to Rivendell, he only meant that this was not the way with which he had intended it to happen.  _ Wizards _ . 

The sounds of fighting died down, and the dwarves stuck stubbornly behind the rock. Bilbo wondered if they hoped to hide there from elves. As if they could escape the sharp eyes and ears of Elrond’s people.  _ Fools, the lot of them _ , Bilbo thought. Sure enough, the sound of hoofbeats grew steadily louder until the company was surrounded at all sides by elves, a row of deadly spears pointed at their faces. Bilbo, who had never truly been on the opposite end of an elf’s weapon, felt sweat begin to pool on his lower back. But the dwarves were no easy prey. Their weapons were drawn and ready, their faces hard and unforgiving. 

“Gandalf!” Bilbo recognized Elrond’s voice before he broke free of the line of soldiers 

“Lord Elrond,” Gandalf said fondly. “ _ Mae govannen, mellon nîn. _ What brings you here?”

Lord Elrond replied to Gandalf in Sindarin, and Bilbo felt a smug satisfaction at understanding, where Thorin and the Company did not. Elrond explained that they had been hunting the orc pack that had been after “something”.

“Ah, that may have been us,” said Gandalf, glancing pointedly at Thorin. Elrond, who had focused entirely on Gandalf, now turned to the dwarves with a raised brow.

“Ah, Thorin, son of Thràin,” Elrond said without a hint of animosity. He then turned to his warriors. “At ease.” They lowered their spears immediately, though they did not break rank.

“I do not believe we have met,” Thorin said tersely, looking Elrond up and down scathingly.

“You have your Grandfather’s bearing,” Elrond said, eyes fixed on Thorin’s. “I knew Thròr when he ruled under the mountain.”

“Indeed? He made no mention of you,” Thorin said, no longer hiding his disdain. 

“Thorin,” Bilbo said sharply, before he could stop himself. Thorin’s glare was inescapable, and Bilbo felt himself wither under it. Elrond’s eyes flicked to Bilbo with curiosity. 

“And what business does a halfling have with the King Under the Mountain?” he asked.

“Lord Elrond,” Bilbo said, bowing low. He heard the hisses of his dwarven companions, but ignored their fury. Lord Elrond had been something akin to a friend, in Bilbo’s later years, and he would not forget that. “I am but a travel companion,” Bilbo said, not wanting to be the one to betray their quest to the elves, despite knowing the help Elrond would provide. 

“Very well,” Elrond said, turning back to Gandalf, switching back to Sindarin. “Am I correct in assuming that your dwarves will not take kindly to an offer of food and shelter?” Gandalf chortled, eyeing the dwarves with fond exasperation. The Company bristled each time the language switched and Bilbo felt a grim satisfaction, knowing full well how frustrating it was to not understand a damn word and have no one take any pity on you. 

“What is he saying? Does he offer us insult?” asked Glóin, brandishing his axe menacingly. The others rallied under his anger, and Gandalf held a steadying hand out, exasperation written clearly on his face.

“No, Master Glóin, he’s offering you hospitality,” Gandalf said.

Bilbo watched as the dwarves turned in towards each other, muttering rapidly in Khuzdul. Bilbo tried his very hardest to ignore the irritation stirring in his gut. He never had learned more than a couple of crude insults in Khuzdul, and he did not appreciate their willingness to leave him out of discussions.

“Very well,” Thorin spat, clearly unhappy. Elrond yelled a couple quick instructions to his men in Sindarin, telling them to ride ahead and make necessary preparations. He handed the reins of his horse off to a familiar elf whose name that, for the life of him, Bilbo could not remember, though he knew he should. The elves rode off, leaving Elrond to walk with the Company, joining Gandalf at the front. Thorin glared mutinously at the wizard’s back, stomping along in silence.

“Gandalf will not betray your trust,” Bilbo said quietly, torn between wanting to reassure his old friend, or smack him atop the head. The pride of dwarves indeed. Why could he not show faith in his non-dwarven companions? Or at the very least not be so damn rude all the time. 

“I did not ask for your assurances, halfling,” Thorin said angrily, storming past him, cloak billowing in the dry, cooling breeze. Bilbo gritted his teeth and looked down, trying to hide the fact that his face was turning an angry red. 

“Ignore him, lad,” said Bofur, coming up from behind him. “Weight o’ the world on his shoulders, that one.” 

“I was only trying to help,” Bilbo muttered.

“‘He’s a grumpy old sod, that’s all,” Bofur said, clapping his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. They walked in silence for an agonizingly long time. Eventually, some of them managed to fall into quiet conversation, but the rest remained overly alert and rather sour the whole walk. Bilbo found himself increasingly bitter, and walked alone, wondering if he could glare hard enough for Thorin to feel it on his dark, silver-streaked curls. After a while though, it was hard to continue with his petty behaviour. The heat was fading and he felt the blissful relief from the scorching sun of the plains they had run across all day. His muscles ached and his lungs burned but he knew what awaited them in Rivendell. A good meal and a soft bed. It was more than he could even imagine. 

With that pleasant thought, Bilbo let his mind wander. His eyes lingered on the wildflowers; pink, white, purple, and blue, hiding among tall grass, at some points nearly up to Bilbo’s armpits. His nose picked up the scent of moisture, of clean fresh air before his ears heard the waterfalls, before he saw the sun’s dwindling rays peeking through the mountains and lighting up the Last Homely House perfectly, as though the mountains themselves had parted solely to cast Rivendell into light. It was a lovely thought, that. The mountains were so vast and he suddenly felt so very small, miniscule in comparison to the ancient rock towering over him. It was a comforting feeling. It was so very easy to feel like the world rested on his shoulders, it was good to remind himself that there were immovable forces, bigger than he could ever imagine rooted into the very earth. 

His companions were in awe, despite their hatred of elven culture. Bilbo knew them well enough to read it in their faces. In their posture and in their silence. It was hard not to admire the beauty of Rivendell. The valley seemed, in itself, alive. The trees were bountiful and green, the cliff faces crawled with moss and plants, and trickling waterfalls fell down as far as the eye could see. The buildings were arching and graceful, and there was something distinctly Elven in the light open spaces. Bilbo’s heart fluttered. After weeks of travel, this was comfort. A place he knew, people he trusted, perhaps some solitude... 

“Thorin,” Gandalf called over everyone’s heads once they made it into one of the many courtyards. “Might we trouble you for a word?” Thorin grumbled under his breath but made his way towards Gandalf and Elrond. Lindir, an elf Bilbo remembered from his days living in Rivendell, led the rest of them to a separate courtyard with a beautiful view of the valley, some parts cast in a deep shadow, where others illuminated in brilliant light. The tables were already prepared, whereas last time they had had to wait. Another more positive outcome of Bilbo’s change.

“We were woefully unprepared, but we managed to make some  _ accommodations  _ thanks to the early warning from our riders,” said Lindir, looking down his thin nose at the dwarves. “Please, set down your weapons, the meal will arrive shortly.” The dwarves looked rather unwilling to part with their weapons. Some placed their heaviest ones against a tree in the center of the courtyard, keeping their smaller and less bulky ones at the ready. As Lindir promised, two long and wide, but short tables with thick, cushy pillows for seats took up most of the square, with another round, tall table in the corner where Bilbo knew Elrond, Gandalf, and Thorin would sit. The dwarves piled onto the pillows, lacking any manner of grace entirely, while several elvish musicians milled about with long, elegant instruments, playing soft tunes that made Bilbo’s heart swell. He found himself squished between Balin and Fíli at one of the tables, his ears subject to a loud cacophony of delicate elvish music, and dwarves on their very worst behaviour.

“What d’you suppose elves eat?” Fíli wondered aloud, leaning his elbows heavily on the table. Fíli looked terrible. His hair was matted, and rendered nearly grey from dirt. For the life of him, Bilbo could not recall why the young dwarf was so soiled. He tried to hide his discomfort. After spending so much time “retired”, as he liked to call it, in Rivendell, he knew that they valued manners and decorum. Perhaps the dwarves knew that too, for everywhere he looked, they were taking as many liberties as possible. There were weapons and elbows and feet on every surface. The dwarves were having yelled conversations between the tables, and wondering loudly and rudely about the elves and their “odd” manners. Bilbo buried his face in his hands in embarrassment.

“A right sorry sight we are,” said Balin, shaking his head reproachfully. “I don’t fancy elves anymore than the next dwarf, but there’s something to be said about Lord Elrond offering his hospitality up to dwarves.”

“Are you always this rude when taking supper at other’s houses?” Bilbo, who had felt much more at ease with Balin recently, had a hard time restraining himself from speaking as freely as he had with the dwarf he remembered from Last Time. He caught himself then and smiled apologetically. “Only, you gave me quite a fright when you burst into my home unannounced. Made quite the mess of my smial,” Bilbo said without animosity. 

“Aye, my apologies for that, lad,” said Balin. “We tend to get a mite carried away. We haven’t had a frightful lot to celebrate in far too many years.”

“I understand,” Bilbo said solemnly. 

“Although I do admit, there’s a method to it. You see, we present ourselves at our very worst. Only when we are accepted at that, do we show anything more.”

“Like a test?” Bilbo asked, surprised that he was only just hearing of this.

“Precisely.”

“Did I… That is to say, did I pass?” Bilbo asked nervously, hand flying to the pocket he used to keep the ring in (a nasty habit that he could not quite shake).

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Balin said with an encouraging smile. “I should think you passed with flying colours.”

“I fear you might be the only one who thinks that,” Bilbo said sadly, eyes falling on the empty seat reserved for Thorin.

“Now, I mean no offence, but you can be a touch- oh, uninviting, say,” Balin said. “Acceptance will come with time.”

“You could give uncle a run for his money, with those icy glares of yours” said Fíli with a teasing expression. Bilbo didn’t know how long Fíli had been listening, but for some reason, the annoyance and fear he usually felt was absent. The safety of Rivendell coupled with the near high of making a large change and having no negative repercussions (yet) had Bilbo feeling quite at ease.

“Surely not,” he said jokingly. Fíli chuckled.

“Oh, aye,” Fíli replied with mock seriousness. “Half afraid you’d turn me to stone, that first night, I was.”

“You hush,” Bilbo said, unable to conceal his smile. He bumped his shoulder into Fíli’s and he felt the dwarf’s quiet laughter shaking his frame. In the comfort and safety of what he considered a second home, Bilbo could not help but let down his guard. He felt good. Healthy. The sun was hanging low over the valley, basking them in a warm, late spring glow, and he marvelled at the fact the sun still had not disappeared behind the mountains. It was little things like this that made Bilbo wonder about the presence of elven magic in the valley of Imladris. His stomach grumbled loudly, and Fíli’s bark of laughter startled him out of his thoughts. 

“Where’s the food?” Fíli asked loudly. “I half expect our burglar to start eating his waistcoat before these elves deem us fit to eat!” To Bilbo’s surprise, Glóin, who was sitting across the table from Balin, let out a loud snort. Bofur and Kíli made noises of agreement from the other table. Bilbo blushed violently, though he couldn’t help being pleased at his inclusion. 

“They’re here,” Dori said quietly, eyes fixed on a spot behind Bilbo’s head. He turned around to watch Elrond, Gandalf, and Thorin sit down at the tall table. Thorin’s feet didn’t reach the ground and Bilbo watched them dangle, choking down a laugh, despite a strange pit opening up in his stomach at the sight. “I suspect they’ll serve us now,” Dori continued importantly, nodding to himself. Sure enough, not seconds later, several elves bore down on them, laden with trays of food. There was a wide assortment of leafy greens and baked goods alike, along with fruity wine and tea. Ori picked up a large leaf with trepidation, eyeing it mistrustfully. Dori, who had wasted no time in loading his plate with greens, gave his brother a stern look.

“Try it,” Dori said firmly. “Just a mouthful.”

“I don’t like green food,” Ori mumbled, twirling the leaf in his fingers. “Think they have any chips?” He asked hopefully. 

“Try the roll,” Bilbo said, handing Ori one of his favourite elven appetizers. The young dwarf eyed it with suspicion, but tried it anyway. He did not grimace, and Bilbo thought that was a victory in itself. He took this moment to observe his travelling companions. The first time he had visited Rivendell, he had been so taken by the sweeping architecture, glowing landscape, and mysterious residents, that he had all but ignored the dwarves.

This time, he watched his friends, drinking them in greedily. Bombur was picking at his food with interest and a hidden smile. Balin ate his food with little ceremony. Bilbo could tell he was not enjoying the elven fare, but he would not pass up a meal. On the other side of the table, Dori eyed his little brother over his wine glass, making sure Ori ate his fill and Glóin glared at his plate with his arms folded across his chest, clearly trying to make a point. The only acknowledgement he got was a weary sigh from Balin. 

At the next table, Bofur was laughing uproariously at Óin, who was stuffing his ear horn with a napkin, eyeing the elven musicians with distaste. Kíli, on the other hand, could not seem to look away from a beautiful elf maid on a large golden harp. Not for the first time, Bilbo was grateful for his keen ears. The youngest dwarf’s gaze shifted to Dwalin, his dazed expression switching rapidly into one of feigned disinterest. 

“Can’t say I fancy elf maids myself,” he said, sloppily covering his tracks. “Too thin.”

“Oh, too thin, aye?” Dwalin said, mockingly. 

“All high cheekbones and creamy skin,” Kíli continued with false bravado, though his ears were tinged red. Bofur nodded along with a poorly concealed grin, and Bilbo noticed that most of their company was watching the procession with interest. “Not enough facial hair for me. Though, that one there is not bad.” He nodded towards another tall, slender elf, who was undoubtedly beautiful. Bilbo let out a snicker, recognizing that particular elf from his days living there. He knew for a fact that this elf would not appreciate the attention in the slightest.

“That’s not an elf maid,” Dwalin said smugly as Kíli’s eyes slid to Dwalin in dismay. The older dwarf laughed loudly, slamming his hand on the table. 

“Oh, don’t start,” Kíli whined, burying his face in his hands. The dwarves burst into laughter and Bilbo, who had not been paying attention last time and had been lost on the joke, cringed from second hand embarrassment.

“Does he know how good an elf’s hearing is?” he asked Balin with a grimace. Balin laughed loudly and caught Fíli’s attention.

“Say, Fíli, I don’t suppose your brother knows that elves have superior hearing, now does he?” Fíli looked at his brother with pity and shook his head. 

“Just like him,” Fíli said, much to the amusement of everyone at their table.

“Has a thing for elves, your brother?” Bilbo asked Fíli with a laugh.

“Has a thing for anything that he’s not allowed to have,” Fíli drawled. “But he knows where to stop. You should’ve seen uncle Thorin when Kíli took up the bow. More of an elvish weapon than not,” Fíli said quietly. “But of course, that only made Kíli practice harder. He’s damn good with it too.”

“That he is,” Bilbo said, glancing again at Kíli who was looking disgruntled as Bofur, Nori, and Dwalin relentlessly poked fun at him. Bilbo felt a sense of contentment wash over him as he watched his dwarves make complete and total asses of themselves in front of Elrond and the elves of Rivendell, whom Bilbo had a deep respect for, and yet, he did not care. 

“Balin,” Bilbo asked, uneasy but desperate to quench his curiosity. Something Thorin had said weeks before had been scratching at him, like getting to the last piece of a puzzle, only to discover it missing. Something that he should know, and was embarrassed to ask about, but even more embarrassed to not know. “I can’t help but wonder... Thorin mentioned that you were married.” How could he have not known Balin was married. Balin, whom he had considered a very dear friend, had never shared this information with him… and he had never asked.

“Aye, that I was,” Balin said with a sad smile. “Orian was his name.”

“Is- is that common?” He asked, voice at a near whisper. He felt inexplicably hot and looked around to make sure no eyes were on him. “For two dwarrow to marry?” Balin’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. 

“As common as anything else. Perhaps more so. Is that not the way in the Shire?” 

“No.” Bilbo breathed. “No, it isn’t. I- that is to say that hobbits are driven to procreate. I…” he trailed off, unsure of what more to say.

“I see,” Balin said, turning to face Bilbo fully, expression unreadable. “I didn’t realize.”

“So why is it then that Dwalin is teasing Kíli about Gadirion?” Bilbo asked, feeling quite lost. Balin chuckled. 

“Ah, you see, Kíli is rather abnormal, in that he is almost  _ only _ attracted to the more womanly sort.” Balin’s words were met with laughter from many of the dwarves around them. There was a quiet commotion, and Bilbo turned to watch Thorin stomp away from the high table, expression thunderous, only to stop in front of the tree, facing Bilbo’s side of the table, nursing a drink. Bofur seemed to take Thorin’s departure from the high table as a sign that they could now switch seats, and he walked over both tables to come and sit on the edge of Bilbo’s right, perched on the edge of the table next to Fíli.

“And it’s really common for a man to be attracted to another man in that way?” Bilbo kept his eyes down, not wanting to look up and feel cool blue eyes on him. Hoping that the heat that seemed to be emanating off his body in waves was not visible to the king.

“Oh aye,” Fíli said, putting an arm around Bilbo. “It doesn’t matter one bit to most dwarves.”

“Half the time when I get down to it, so to speak--” Bofur punctuated this with an exaggerated wink, “--it’s a surprise!” he said. Fíli let out a bark of laughter, slapping his hand on the table. After a moment, the two dwarves did a ridiculously complicated hand gesture, ending in a rough forehead smash and Bilbo shook his head vacantly.

“I see,” Bilbo said, knowing his face was flushed scarlet, pointedly angling his body away from Thorin and hoping that his curls hid most of his face. “Well, I suppose that makes sense coming from you, Bofur.” He tried to bring the light teasing tone back to his voice, but found it slightly hoarse.

“Too true,” said Fíli, food spraying from his mouth. “Bofur is definitely the sort to be surprised by that, not that I haven’t experienced the same thing, mind you...”

Bilbo should have been able to sleep. He should have felt comfortable, sleepy, and safe in one of the guest rooms the elves had so graciously provided. Should have taken this opportunity while he had it. The room was private and clean and the bed was soft and comfortable, a familiar, yet hazy feeling accompanying it, a relic from another life. But no, Bilbo had to go and make things harder for himself, of course he did. He dragged his belongings into the courtyard where the dwarves were still very loudly and very pointedly not sleeping, having turned down the offer of room and bed. They had not wanted to separate, not trusted the elves enough to do so, out of pride or genuine fear, Bilbo could not say. 

It had turned out to be a good decision on Bilbo’s part though. Bofur had very loudly celebrated Bilbo’s arrival, and they had actually had a rather pleasant night, although Bilbo learned much more about Bofur, Fíli and a couple others’ past conquests than he had ever wished to know. Most dwarves were still uneasy around him, but it was good enough to sit quietly and be with his friends, puffing on his pipe and watching them laugh. He found he could not begrudge himself this small comfort.

The next day, Gandalf, Thorin, and Balin went for a private meeting after a late breakfast, and to the rousing pleas of Bofur, Fíli, and Kíli, the Company decided to explore the area. They made the short hike down to the bottom of the valley where they followed a bubbling little creek that eventually widened into a good sized swimming hole. There was a fallen log on one side, and the water was a creamy aqua, the sun illuminating thousands of tiny particles in its depths. The dwarves wasted no time in getting undressed and jumping into the water, some using the fallen tree to jump off of. The clearing was soon filled with good natured yelling, laughter, and splashing. Bilbo stuck to the shore, far enough to not get splashed, and scanned the rocky ground for flat stones.

“What are you looking for?” asked Ori, who had yet to enter the water, still clothed head to toe, and sporting many handmade knit items. 

“Skippers,” Bilbo answered, eyes not leaving the ground. “Aha!” he bent over abruptly and scooped up a flat stone. 

“Skippers?” asked Ori, eyeing Bilbo warily. 

“Yes,” Bilbo replied with a smile. “Watch this.” He recoiled his arm and then shot it forward, launching the rock across the surface of the water away from the dwarves. It skimmed the water and bounced several times before eventually sinking with a splash. 

“How did you do that?” Kíli yelled from the water, looking excited. 

“Come here, I’ll show you,” Bilbo said to the young dwarf, who bounded eagerly from the depths. Bilbo had gotten mostly used to dwarven nudity while bathing, not that this was his chief achievement, but at least he knew enough to keep his eyes up at all times. “Find yourself a thin, flat stone.”

“Like this?” asked Ori. 

“Perfect. And Kíli? Yes, that one will do just fine,” Bilbo said. He did his best to explain the movements. Ori got it quite quickly, though he didn’t manage more than a couple of skips at a time. Kíli, on the other hand, was growing increasingly frustrated. 

“How are you so good?” Kíli whined. Bilbo laughed.

“It’s one of the only things us hobbits are good at around water,” he said. “We don’t swim if we can avoid it, but there are plenty of activities you can do safely from the shore.”

The afternoon passed much the same. Ori stayed mostly on dry land, practicing his skipping, but Kíli’s impatience eventually won out, and he returned to the cool waters of the creek. Bilbo was quite content to sit on the bank, occasionally dipping his toes in, but Fíli and Kíli had been bugging him about joining them the whole time. 

“Come on, Mister Baggins,” Fíli said, squeezing water from his moustache braid. “Join us!”

“I’d much prefer to sit and sun myself, thank you,” Bilbo replied. 

“It’s hardly deep at all,” Kíli said.

“You may have noticed that you’re all a good deal taller than me.”

“But look at those feet!” Fíli exclaimed, swimming over and prodding one of Bilbo’s large toes. “They’re like built in flippers.”

“Boys, please,” Bilbo said, rolling his eyes.

“The water is wonderful,” Kíli said with a pleading smile.

“Oh, well alright,” Bilbo huffed. How could he say no to them. “Just this once. But if I drown, I’ll be holding you two personally responsible…”

Not an hour later, Thorin and Balin joined the group. Dwalin got out of the water, instantly at their sides, flexing his muscles importantly. Bilbo saw Nori roll his eyes and scoff, sinking lower into the water.

“Curse those elves to Mahal’s halls and back,” Bilbo heard Thorin swear. He had the distinct impression that the fun would soon be over, with the mood that their leader was in. He crept out of the water, hoping to avoid being seen, avoid any misdirected anger or mistrust. 

Bilbo was a shivering mess on the shore once again. The wind had picked up and shadows were creeping in, and his wet trousers stubbornly refused to dry out, clinging unwelcomed to his skin. His pleasant mood had been thoroughly spoiled and he watched enviously from the outside once again. At least the object of his displeasure seemed just as uncomfortable as himself. Thorin was standing to the side, smoking and watching the Company silently. As if he could feel Bilbo’s eyes on him, Thorin turned his head. Bilbo looked away instantly, staring violently at the ground and trying to fight the nerves in his stomach. Eventually, Bilbo managed to convince himself that Thorin hadn’t noticed, or hadn’t cared, only for his ears to pick up on a hesitant shuffle. And then the dwarf sat down, several feet away from Bilbo. He said nothing, did not even look at the hobbit, who was suddenly very aware of every breath, the goosebumps on his bare arms, and the fact that he was actually very uncomfortable, but he was now too nervous to shift his position. He tried to catch a glimpse of the king out of the corner of his eye, but was unsuccessful. 

“You’re cold.” It was a statement. Not worried, nor comforting, nor even derisive. Bilbo finally turned to Thorin, whose eyes were trained fixedly on his nephews, who were wrestling with each other, throwing water and rather dirty swear words alike.

“Your boys are a bad influence on me,” Bilbo said after a moment, smiling nervously. 

“I hardly think you need influencing, Master Baggins,” Thorin said with the ghost of laughter that Bilbo hadn’t heard since Last Time. “It would seem nobody but yourself can make you do things you do not wish to do.” Thorin’s head tilted in Bilbo’s direction ever so slightly, and Bilbo forced his eyes away from the lines around Thorin’s eyes.

“Yes, well,” Bilbo said, clearing his throat. “I do take after my mother in that respect.”

“Hmm.” Thorin’s voice was a distant rumble, but it shook Bilbo like thunder. Bilbo knew he did not need to continue, but he kept speaking anyway.

“She was quite a force to be reckoned with, my mother. Always doing the unexpected.” He stared at the ripples on the water with uncertainty. 

“A bit like you then.” Thorin said, nodding in Bilbo’s direction. 

“Not at all, actually,” Bilbo replied, lost in the memory of parents whose faces he found could now picture clearly. “Before you came around-- that is to say before you  _ all _ came around, I was perfectly respectable.”

“Were you?”

“I should think so,” Bilbo said. “You know, I still ask myself every day what came over me, parading off with a band of dwarves. What will the neighbours think?” Bilbo asked with a laugh. “I’m sure Lobelia is having the time of her life, starting rumours about Mad Baggins, or something of the like.”

“Lobelia?” 

“Oh yes, one of my many cousins,” Bilbo said, waving his hand importantly. “Nasty woman, that.” Bilbo could have sworn that Thorin just laughed. 

“Bilbo,” Bofur yelled, ambling out of the water sloppily, shaking water out of his hair. He stopped shamelessly right in front of Bilbo, dripping water all over his finally dry legs.

“Ugh, Bofur,” Bilbo grimaced, bending his neck uncomfortably far back to keep his eyes  _ above _ Bofur’s naked waistline. “Must you always be so averse to wearing trousers around me? One might think you’re trying to coax me into bed,” Bilbo said, wincing at how easily he had fallen into the banter he and Bofur had shared Last Time. 

“Is it working?” Bofur asked with a wink, not missing a beat. 

“Oh hush, you,” Bilbo chuckled. Thorin stood up suddenly, fists clenched to his side. 

“Alright everyone, we’re leaving.” Bilbo’s jaw dropped and he scrambled to his feet instinctively. Thorin turned and stalked away, barking impatiently as his nephews complained. Bilbo looked to Bofur, who shrugged. 

“Ah well, there’s nothing for it,” Bofur said. His eyes lit up with an impish smile. “Now where did I put my trousers?”

Bilbo could no longer avoid the wizard, whose eyes Bilbo had felt far too many times since the trolls. He felt like a minnow trapped in a small pool with nowhere to hide. No matter how well Bilbo knew the layout of Rivendell, Gandalf seemed to know it better, to always be one step ahead, smoking his pipe leaning against a wall. He knew that it was time to tell him the truth, for if he did not, Gandalf would figure it out himself. If Bilbo was honest with himself, he was surprised he had kept it from Gandalf for so long at all. Gandalf stood in a long hallway with Elrond, talking in hushed whispers, a sense of urgency on his lined face. Elrond nodded along seriously. 

“Ah, Gandalf, if I am not mistaken, someone awaits your presence,” Elrond said, catching Bilbo’s eye with a smile. Gandalf turned around and stared at Bilbo with an expression of near smug satisfaction.  _ The cheeky bastard. _

“Yes, I do suppose you’re right,” Gandalf said. “Do you have somewhere I could meet with Mr Baggins away from prying ears?” He asked, as graciously as possible.

“Indeed,” said Elrond, the smallest of frowns gracing his features. “Do follow me.” He led them down several wide, open hallways. Bilbo did not pay attention to where Elrond was taking them. Gone were the days in which Bilbo would get lost and confused trying to navigate Rivendell. He had an admirable sense of elvish floorplans, for a hobbit, what with his stay in Rivendell, and his month of navigating the kingdom of the Elvenking in Mirkwood. They stopped in front of a simple door.

“This is where I leave you,” Elrond said with a smile. 

“I thank you, Lord Elrond,” Gandalf said with a graceful bow. He then opened the door and held it open for Bilbo. The room inside was quite sparse. Bilbo had surely never been in this room when he had lived here. Most of the rooms were elegant, but comfortable. This was quite bare. It held a table and two chairs, and that was it. He found himself wondering about the room, its purpose, when it was last used, instead of speaking with Gandalf. Suddenly nervous, Bilbo took a seat and started fiddling with his pocket. Gandalf sat across from him. He did not speak, but rather looked at the hobbit with a quiet expectancy.

“Right,” Bilbo said, clearing his throat loudly. “Where to begin… Well, at the beginning, I suppose.” The air felt tight in his lungs and his words struggled to form properly.

“My dear fellow, you may start wherever you wish,” Gandalf said, reaching a hand across the table to rest on Bilbo’s shoulder comfortingly.

“Yes, well,” Bilbo said, regaining his confidence. “One day I was minding my own business when thirteen dwarves and a wizard came barging into my smial unannounced, ruining my plumbing, and eating me out of house and home. As a respectable hobbit, you can imagine I was quite shocked.

“Well, the next day, I decided to join them against my better judgement.” Bilbo laughed quietly. Gandalf frowned at this, for Bilbo had decided to join them the very night they had arrived, not the day after. “We weren’t exactly quick friends. I missed Bag End and I complained a lot. I don’t think they had all that much faith in me, and rightly so. And then we ran into the trolls.” Bilbo paused and thought about how best to word this. “They got us. They got all of us. All thirteen dwarves, and me, anyways. A -- and I stalled with the stupid tube worms, and you split open the boulder and they turned to stone.” Gandalf sat back in his chair and brought a hand to his chin, expression thoughtful, but he did not interrupt. “We found the troll hoard, and then Radagast came, followed quickly by wargs that Kíli and Thorin killed, not I.

“And then we ran. We almost didn’t make it. Kíli shot the warg instead of the orc on the boulder. It fell down in front of us and didn’t go down without a fight. Every orc heard it and came after us. We were surrounded. That’s when you beckoned us all into the hidden pass that led to Rivendell.” Bilbo’s hand had not stopped fidgeting with his pocket, and he was unwilling to meet the wizard’s eyes. “A-and I think I should maybe stop here for now.”

“You are wise to do so,” Gandalf said, eyebrows high. “I must say, while I was not expecting this, I am not entirely surprised. There was always something about you, Bilbo Baggins.” Bilbo shook his head ruefully. 

“Yes, well,” Bilbo stammered. “I must say, I am rather surprised I kept it from you for this long, old friend.”

“Now, when you say ‘old friend’...?” Gandalf said, trailing off into a question. 

“Eighty years,” Bilbo said fondly. “You are my  _ oldest _ friend, as a matter of fact.” 

“Dear Bilbo,” Gandalf said, a smile breaking out across his face. “I am sorry to say that I have frightfully many a question, although I do not know how wise it is to ask them.”

“Go right ahead, ask away,” Bilbo said, waving his hand in the air dismissively. “I dare say that if there is anything too sensitive, we can avoid it altogether.”

“Yes, I suppose we can,” Gandalf said thoughtfully. “Am I correct in assuming that this is your second time living through these events then?”

“You would be, yes. It’s rather funny, actually,” Bilbo said, weight lifting off his shoulders as he spoke. “I was with you and my nephew, Frodo when I died, and then I was back at Bag End where you showed up, just as you had eighty years before. I thought I was truly dead and you were just there to bother me, much like you did in life. I didn’t even doubt it for a second,” Bilbo said, cracking up. Gandalf let out a booming laugh.

“Well, I daresay that explains your odd behavior that morning,” Gandalf said. “If I may, what happened the first time I came calling?”

“Gave me quite a fright, is what you did,” Bilbo said sternly. “But it was much the same, although I was far less prepared. I- I did doubt that this was real for quite some time, you know. I thought it was some cruel afterlife prank, or other. Seeing my old friends traipsing through my house again, as though nothing had ever happened was-” Bilbo choked on his words, as unbidden emotion flooded him. Gandalf’s eyes showed a sad understanding. 

“Who did we lose?” Gandalf asked solemnly. Bilbo paused, unsure if he should share this information. But, he supposed that he wouldn’t tell Gandalf how. Besides, if all went well, this would never be a problem.

“Fíli and Kíli,” Bilbo said shakily. “A-and Th-Thorin.” He felt a wave of grief wash over him and he screwed his eyes shut.

“I see,” Gandalf said. Bilbo opened his eyes to see remorse on the wizard’s face. “I am dearly sorry to have involved you in this, Bilbo.”

“No,” Bilbo said, clenching his fists. He would wallow in regret no more. “I am glad to have shared in their adventure. And even more glad to now have the chance to make things right.”

“Bilbo, I fear I must warn you that some things may be destined to come to pass. There could be little you can do to change them.”

“No!” Bilbo said, slamming his palm on the table. “No, I must change things. No matter what, I will see a Durin on the throne of Erebor.” Another promise lingered unsaid on the air. _Even if it kills me._ “And Gandalf, I fear I must also warn you. This quest is just the beginning. An inescapable evil is coming, and I worry that I will be the one to bring it to light.” Bilbo hung his head in shame as Gandalf scrutinized him harshly.

“Bilbo Baggins,” he said finally, though he looked pained to change the subject. “Let us not dwell on the past,” he paused and let out a dark laugh. “Or the future, rather.”

“But Gandalf, suppose I don’t make it, what then? My knowledge could change everything!” Bilbo was desperate. He knew he could not survive. He could feel it in his bones. Without him, what would happen to the ring? Would it ever find its way to Frodo? Or would it fall into enemy hands? “We can’t risk that!” Gandalf thought for a moment.

“Would you entrust Lord Elrond with this information? I fear what I would do with so much knowledge of what is yet to pass. Lord Elrond, however, is far more tempered. He is a far better secret keeper than I.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Bilbo said with a sigh. He held immense respect and trust for the elf, and he did not doubt that Elrond was the best choice, but he could not help feeling disappointed. The ring was weighing on him so harshly. He could feel it. It was so close, calling to him, urging him towards the Misty Mountains every moment. He ached to share that burden and Gandalf seemed to sense his urgency. 

“Lord Elrond plans to meet with Thorin this evening.”

“I know,” Bilbo interrupted before he could stop himself. “Apologies,” he stuttered, flushing in embarrassment. 

“How foolish of me,” said Gandalf with a chuckle.. “In any case, accompany me to the meeting. You can meet with Lord Elrond after.” Bilbo nodded minutely. He knew Thorin would not be happy to see him.

“What is the halfling doing here?” Thorin asked as Bilbo and Gandalf arrived. Bilbo winced and stuck close to the wizard’s side. Thorin’s voice was biting and cold, more menacing than Bilbo remembered it to be, though he could not fathom why. It ate at his heart like a frost, infecting his veins, his lungs. At Thorin’s side, Balin pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head.

“I hope you have not forgotten that Bilbo is here at my behest. I would have thought that you of all people would know by now how sharp his wit is,” Gandalf gave Thorin a piercing look. “He is here because I believe he will provide insight that some may overlook.”

“Very well,” Thorin said, not looking at Bilbo. “But you would do well to remember that  _ I  _ am the leader of this mission, wizard.”

“Thorin,” said Balin nervously, putting a restraining hand on the king’s arm. “Gandalf has proven himself to be invaluable to the company. As has Bilbo.” Balin did not look at the hobbit, but rather at his king, giving him a look that clearly served to remind him that Thorin all but owed Bilbo his life. Bilbo felt himself swell with gratitude. Balin had not stood up for him Last Time. Thorin looked ready to argue, but at that moment, Lord Elrond walked in.

“Good evening,” Elrond said, opening his arms out to them in welcome. “I trust you have been well taken care of?” Thorin snorted and muttered something in Khuzdul. Balin’s smile was tense as he spoke.

“Your generosity is appreciated.” Elrond gave a nod of his head in response.

“Now what, may I ask, are thirteen dwarves and a hobbit doing travelling down the Great East Road?” 

“Our business is no concern of elves, as I have said countless times,” Thorin spat. Bilbo rolled his eyes but resisted the urge to call Thorin out on his behaviour. 

“For goodness’ sake. Thorin, show him the map!” Gandalf sounded as fed up as Bilbo felt. 

“It is the legacy of my people. It’s mine to protect! As are its secrets.” Thorin crossed his arms over his chest and seemed to plant himself into the ground, an unshakable force.

“Save me from the stubbornness of dwarves. Your pride will be your downfall. You stand here in the presence of one of the few in Middle-Earth who can read that map. Show it to Lord Elrond!” Bilbo barely managed to suppress his approving smile as Thorin grudgingly pulled the map out and handed it to Elrond. He looked down on it, hair falling in a curtain around him.

“Erebor. What is your interest in this map?” The elf asked, eyes staring holes into the dwarven king.

“It’s mainly academic,” Gandalf interjected, drawing all eyes on him. “As you know, this sort of artifact sometimes contains hidden text.” The lie fell from Gandalf’s lips easily and Thorin and Balin looked pleased that he had not given their quest away. Bilbo, however, knew how perceptive Lord Elrond was, and was not convinced that the elf hadn’t already guessed the purpose of their journey. “You still read ancient dwarvish, do you not?” Gandalf asked pleasantly, as though asking how Elrond took his tea. The elf nodded, inspecting the map again.

“Cirth ithil’,” Elrond said thoughtfully.

“Moon runes. Of course. An easy thing to miss,” Gandalf looked largely pleased at Elrond’s quick success.

“Well in this case, that is true. Moon runes can only be read by the light of the moon of the same shape and season as the day on which they were written.” Thorin let out an impatient huff.

“Can you read them?” he growled.

“These runes were written on a mid-summer’s eve by the light of a crescent moon nearly two hundred years ago. It would seem you were meant to come to Rivendell. Fate is with you, Thorin Oakenshield. The same moon shines upon us tonight.” Fate indeed. Perhaps this was one of those unchangeable facts of which Gandalf spoke. The fact that they managed to meet on the exact right night two times had to be beyond luck. Elrond took the map and placed it on an ornate crystal slab, in full moonlight. As the light shone down, runes appeared in thin, shining letters. “Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the keyhole,” Elrond translated. They were all silent for a moment. 

“This is ill news. Summer is passing, Durin’s Day will soon be upon us,” Thorin said finally, frowning deeply.

“We still have time to find the entrance,” Balin said. “We will have to be standing at exactly the right spot, at exactly the right time. Then, and only then, can the door be opened.”

“So this is your purpose, to enter the mountain?” The dwarves seemed to have forgotten that Elrond was there. They stared at him for a moment.

“What of it?” Thorin asked.

“There are some who would not deem it wise.”

“I daresay they’re right,” said Bilbo, breaking his silence for the first time. “But I don’t believe that there is any point in trying to stop us. In fact, I’d rather like to see you try.” Thorin stared openly at Bilbo as Gandalf placed a restraining hand on the hobbit’s arm. Elrond, however, seemed to find it quite amusing.

“Indeed,” he laughed quietly to himself for a moment. “You are an interesting creature, Master Baggins. If that is all, Master Oakenshield, I wish to seek an audience with the halfling.” Thorin’s face fell into a scowl once again.

“Master Baggins is a part of my company. Anything you need to say can be said in front of all of us,” Thorin said, Balin nodding behind him. Bilbo wasn’t quite sure how to feel. Did Thorin not trust him to give away their secrets? Did he worry for him? 

“It’s fine, Master Oakenshield,” Bilbo said, drawing all eyes to him. He felt a shiver run down his spine, suddenly nauseous. “I asked to see him.” The dwarves did not look pleased. Bilbo could tell that Thorin wanted to argue, but Balin gave a subtle shake of his head and Thorin stormed off. Part of Bilbo wanted to go after him, to flee and never return. He dug his toes into the stone at his feet and imagined himself growing roots, planting himself in place. He took several deep breaths as he watched Thorin disappear, an odd grace about him, even in his anger.

“Thank you for your aid, Lord Elrond,” Balin said stiffly, bowing. When he righted himself, his eyes ran over Bilbo, searching for something, a question that Bilbo could not decipher in his eyes. And then he followed after Thorin. Gandalf, too, gave Bilbo a comforting smile, then swept away. Once they were alone, Elrond motioned for Bilbo to follow him, to tear up the roots he had planted and light them on fire.

Elrond showed Bilbo to his own private rooms, where they sat at a very tall table. Bilbo had never been in Elrond’s rooms, but unlike his conversation with Gandalf, Bilbo could not focus on one thing. The room was too beautiful, too personal. He stared at the table, feet dangling mournfully, longing for their usual connection to the ground. Longing for anything to tether him to the present, and to reality.

It was an agonizingly long couple of hours. Quite possibly the longest in either of his lives. Bilbo explained in painstaking detail everything about their quest, then moved on to all that Frodo had told him about his own journey. Elrond had many questions, and Bilbo had quite a few of his own to counter them, although neither of them managed to answer many of them at all. As evening crept steadily on, Bilbo felt a heaviness in his heart. It was not sharp or urgent, but deep, weighted, making him sluggish and tired. Elrond seemed to sense this, seemed to know that this was all Bilbo could handle.

“I think it is wise for us to retire for the evening,” the elf said, unsmiling. “Before we do, I wish to caution you.”

“You have my attention,” Bilbo said, tongue heavy. 

“Firstly, I would like to impress upon you the danger of continuing the quest as is. Should things change, and you were to fall unexpectedly, the ring could be lost, plunging Middle Earth into a crippling uncertainty. It is dangerous to bear such a burden alone. While I think it wise for you to have trusted me with this information, once you leave this valley, there is little I can do. Are you sure you wish to risk this?” 

“I--” Bilbo swallowed thickly, headache throbbing in his temples. “I must-- I must risk it,” he said, flashes of the horrors of Last Time synchronized with the throb of his head. 

“I understand,” Elrond said, although the crease between his eyebrows was prominent. “I have heard that hobbits are very resilient,” he said. Bilbo snorted. 

“When necessary.”

“I have also heard they are fond of the comforts of home. These dwarves must mean quite a lot for you to forsake this.”

“I don’t have a home,” Bilbo said. “I haven’t for quite some time.” He did not want to think about the dwarves. Not now, and not in the way Elrond seemed to suggest. There was too much truth there, and far too much of his past. 

“I wish not to add to your burden,” Elrond said. “But I ask that you remember that the fate of Middle Earth rests upon your success.”

“Right,” Bilbo muttered, rubbing his hands over his face. “No pressure.” Elrond smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. Pitying.

“Do not think you must sacrifice yourself to do this,” Elrond said knowingly. “Do not close your heart. I can see the scars this is creating. You gain nothing in doing so.” Bilbo’s stomach churned unpleasantly and his fingers twitched towards his pocket, wishing for solitude, to hide from this feeling of being stripped bare and thrown from a cliff. There would be no eagles, no ring to save him from this. “Though I think I know your answer, I feel I must offer regardless. You are welcome to stay here, if that is your wish.”

“No,” Bilbo said, feeling more certain of himself than he had in a long while. “No, I must stay with Thorin.”

“Very well,” Elrond said. “Be well, Bilbo Baggins.” Bilbo nodded grimly, and slid from the chair, feeling dizzy and weak, like a young fawn taking its first steps. 

“Thank you, Lord Elrond.” He made his way to the door, and then paused. “Before I leave, might I ask a favour?”

When Bilbo finally left Elrond’s quarters, he was exhausted. Completely and entirely emotionally drained. He did not feel all that much better, if he was honest with himself. The ring still called to him, and he felt no more reassured about the Company’s future than he had been when he showed up at Bag End  _ not _ -dead. Bilbo had assured Elrond that he knew his way around Rivendell, and thus, did not need an escort to where the dwarves were sleeping. When he finally came to their makeshift group bedroom, his eyes fell upon his sleeping roll with a desperate longing. He slouched over, wanting nothing more than to sleep, sure he would be out in seconds, when a rustling sound caught his ears. He looked up, only to meet Thorin’s eyes as he walked towards him. He motioned for Bilbo to follow him, and after a moment’s hesitation, he followed him outside to the terrace.

“What did the elf want?” Thorin asked, not looking at Bilbo, but rather leaning on a railing and looking out over the valley. It was dark and Bilbo could only just make out the king’s profile.

“He did not want anything. Rather it was I who was seeking his counsel,” Bilbo replied warily.

“I do not trust the elves. Tell me, of what did you speak?” Thorin asked, turning to face Bilbo angrily.

“You do not trust  _ me _ , you mean?” Bilbo replied, cursing himself as his right hand immediately started fumbling with his pocket as his nerves spiked.

“That is not what I said,” Thorin growled. “Elves are self-serving, conniving bastards, and I would not have a member of my company consorting with them.”

“But it is what you meant! You don’t trust me to not give away our secrets to them. You still don’t trust that I will not betray you.” The accusation hung heavy in the air and Thorin growled.

“It is not about you, halfling, it is about the elves. My secrets are my own.” The words Thorin left unsaid felt heavy in the space between them.

“Right,” Bilbo said shortly, running his sweaty palms on his pant legs. “Well I do not share your prejudice. And at the very least, the elves treat me with respect, which is more than I can say for you, king under the mountain.” Bilbo’s voice was cold as ice and Thorin’s expression matched. 

“Very well,” the dwarf said before stalking away. Bilbo suddenly felt so weary that he sunk to the ground right where he stood and let out a shuddering breath. Why was this happening to him? He had never wished for the easy escape of death more. Why did he have to endure all this pain a second time?  _ Why? _

The ring was cold on his finger but his mind was on fire. His bones were char under his skin, barely able to stand upright, threatening to crumble and snap under his weight. The black and white world was blurry and confusing, and panic swelled painfully under his chest. He was burning up, hot like dragonfire and he let out an agonized scream. He shuddered and moaned as the scent of his own burning flesh stung his nose. A great big fiery eye, an enormous, evil sun in the sky, stared fixedly at the hobbit, burning holes in his skin as though it were paper. There was a cold, hard pressure around his throat and his blistered fingers wrestled with the ring as it slowly shrunk around his neck, crushing his trachea, all air leaving him. As he gasped desperately for air and fumbled with the ring around his neck, he looked again at the fiery eye, only to see it morph into the glassy eye of Smaug, who let out a great blast of fire. Bilbo closed his eyes firmly against the onslaught of blistering, endless pain, wishing for the end. When he opened his eyes again, he was looking into Thorin’s cruel glare. The ring around his neck had been replaced by the dwarf’s strong hands, merciless and painful. Tears stung at his eyes as he gasped and scrabbled desperately at Thorin’s tight grip. Then, Thorin laughed and let go. The relief Bilbo felt as air rushed into his deprived lungs was soon replaced by dread as he plummeted off the ramparts into oblivion. 

* * *

Thorin returned to his sleeping pad and threw himself down onto it, running his hands aggressively through his hair. Why did the halfling have to be so damn stubborn? He had seemed so at ease in the halls of Rivendell, and unless Thorin was entirely mistaken, and he did not think he was, the hobbit understood the elven language. His hazel eyes followed the elves easily as they spoke, without a hint of confusion. The furrowed brow that Bilbo wore so often when the Company spoke Khuzdul was noticeably absent. Furthermore, the hobbit did not seem intrigued by the elves, but rather at ease. He showed no surprise at their customs, or a longing to learn more. The badly hidden interest that irritated Thorin to no end when the dwarves discussed their customs was nowhere to be seen. He felt a surge of inexplicable anger as he thought about Bilbo plodding down the halls of Rivendell with an ease that he did not have-- could never have among the dwarves.

Thorin sighed loudly and tried to rid his mind of these thoughts. What did he care about the habits of one odd hobbit? It’s not like he could picture him walking through the halls of Erebor. Thorin was so wrapped up in his thoughts that when he remembered that they actually needed Bilbo for their quest’s success, he swore aloud. Here he was all but pushing the halfling at the elves, would it really be a surprise if he stayed with them? He hesitated a moment before staggering to his feet stiffly. He tried to think of what to say to the hobbit, but could not come up with anything, so he hoped the right words would find him when the time came. As he approached the terrace where he had left him, his ears picked up a strange noise. A rattling, gasping whine. He picked up his pace immediately, wishing he had thought to bring his sword. His mind raced, wondering if the elves had taken advantage of the tiny being’s solitude. When he reached the terrace, it at first appeared to be empty, but as his eyes adjusted to the low light, he saw the hobbit curled in on himself on the cold ground, shaking violently.

“I-I don’t w-want it,” Bilbo choked out. Thorin threw himself to the ground by the hobbit’s side. He was clutching at his throat and gasping as though he could not bring air into his lungs. An agonizing scream ripped from Bilbo’s throat and Thorin was seized with panic. What had happened? Had he been poisoned? 

“Gandalf,” Thorin yelled loudly, not caring that it was the wee hours of the morning and he was likely waking everyone in this godforsaken valley. Bilbo froze for a moment at Thorin’s yell, and then he started grasping at something invisible around his throat, trying to push something away. His lips were blue.

“T-Thorin I’m s-sorry, p-please d-on’t,” Bilbo’s words were faint and painful. “Please, l-let me g-go.” The hobbit’s face was screwed up in agony and Thorin realized that Bilbo was locked in a nightmare. Thorin fell back onto his hands, now very aware that he had caused this change, this added terror. He wanted to put space between himself and the small, broken body.

“What’s going on? Is he alright?” Ori had always been a light sleeper, and was now anxiously looking between the hobbit and his king. Was that fear? Confusion?  _ Accusation _ in his gaze? 

“Get Gandalf,” Thorin choked out. Ori’s eyes were wide as he set off in a sprint. Thorin did not know what to do. Why was Thorin in Bilbo’s nightmares? Why did he sound so afraid? Had he really been so cruel, unfair? 

“How long has he been in this state?” Elrond’s voice carried loudly as he and Gandalf walked right up to the halfling. Thorin stood up and backed away immediately, wiping dust and rocks from his hands absently.

“I don’t know,” he said helplessly. “I came upon him not a minute ago.” Elrond nodded and placed his hand gently on the hobbit’s forehead. He started muttering in elvish and Thorin was torn between disgust and desperation. He did not notice that they had amassed an audience until Balin came up beside him.

“I should have known something like this would happen,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “I shouldn’t have left him alone tonight.”

“How could you have known?” Thorin asked. Behind him, the rest of the company’s muttered questions and concerns washed over him. 

“He was afraid,” Balin said quietly. “When we left him with Lord Elrond. Did you not see?”

“I did not,” Thorin said guiltily.

“What did you say to him?” Balin’s face was calm but there was an accusatory glint in his eyes.

“More than I should have.” Thorin hung his head and said no more. 

* * *

It was still dark when Bilbo came to with tears in his eyes and blood on his tongue. There was a frightening moment, where he did not know where he was. He was laying on cold, hard stone and there were faces swimming above him that he could not quite discern. His hands flew to his throat as panic filled him. He gasped painfully as air filled his lungs, it seemed to burn as it slid down his throat.

“-ilbo.” Bilbo realized that he was being addressed and looked around for the source of the voice, blinking furiously. It was Lord Elrond, who was gazing at him with a look of pity and understanding.

“What?” he rasped, then stopped abruptly as his throat seemed to throb and ache with the exertion. 

“Move slowly.” Fear seared through Bilbo’s veins as he struggled to draw breath. “May I?” Elrond asked, hands hovering near Bilbo’s shoulders. The hobbit nodded and Elrond helped guide Bilbo into a sitting position. Bilbo did not ask what happened, for he was all too familiar with this feeling, although normally without such a large audience. His cheeks burned and kept his eyes down, not wanting to see pity or embarrassment in the dwarves faces.

“Alright now, that’s quite enough, leave him be,” he heard Balin say. There was some muttering, but then the unmistakable sound of a dozen dwarves retreating. Three remained; Balin, Elrond, and Gandalf, who was looking at him with a deep, regretful sadness. 

“Oh enough of that,” Bilbo said, recognizing the look all too well. “This is hardly your fault, Gandalf.”

“Perhaps, but that does not undo what has been done.” The wizard said.

“Come now, Gandalf,” said Bilbo, who had watched his friend’s problem solving skills reduce entirely and apologetically to relying on hobbits to save Middle Earth. “We both know that you would not undo anything. It was for the good of all. And while I have regrets, it is not something I regret as a whole.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone else notice Fíli looking like a complete stranger in the dining scene at Rivendell in the movie? I've watched it a million times and it bugs me so much I decided to write it in, just for fun.


	4. Siblings and Singing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More fun times in Rivendell, and then it's into the mountains!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just about to move to a new city, so I am not sure when the next chapter will be, but bear with me, I'm trying! Thanks for all the support.

Bilbo felt like death warmed up, if he was entirely honest. He had spent the night in a room all alone, in a smotheringly soft bed. He had come in and out of sleep, waking up at even the slightest noise or odd feeling, waking up feeling hot and sticky. His eyes burned and his limbs protested to any movement. Despite that, he got up and plodded to the kitchens, fixing himself a spot of breakfast. He had plans for the day, and he knew he would feel better with food in his stomach. Afterwards, he ambled through the halls, eyes peeled for a certain dwarf. 

He was sitting in an archway, looking out over the valley, face peaceful but curious. There were times where he looked just like Thorin, and other times where there was something entirely unrecognizable. He was softer, more naïve. There were no frown lines or wrinkles, but a face that unmistakably smiled and laughed easily. At these times, Bilbo wondered what the Lady Dís looked like. He had heard so little about her. He had vague images of a stern looking woman, eerily similar to Thorin. He wondered if she had the same piercing blue eyes.

“Kíli,” Bilbo said, causing the dwarf to jump and hastily move away from his perch. 

“Mr. Boggins! I was just-” the young dwarf’s expression was guilty, and Bilbo knew why. Kíli had shown less animosity towards elves than the average dwarf, that much was true, but it was the pining looks Bilbo had seen him send a certain red-haired elf from Mirkwood Last Time, that had really piqued his interest. Kíli was young and stubborn. He seemed to draw trouble like a magnet, unable to like or do things that were expected of him, but he meant well, always. It was something rare that Bilbo didn’t see often in people. An innate goodness and an open mind. An open heart too, one could argue.

“I know what you were doing, Kíli,” Bilbo said, pinning him with a knowing look. “Come with me.” Kíli hesitated for a moment before following behind the hobbit. Bilbo finally stopped, after several sharp turns, at the archery range where Elladan and Elrohir, Lord Elrond’s sons were very clearly making a show of their superior archery skills, having been forewarned of their arrival by Elrond the night before, at Bilbo’s request. It was a large, spacious area. Racks of bows and arrows sat at one end with several targets at the other, in various sizes and heights. The twins turned to the new arrivals with identical calculating expressions. 

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service,” Bilbo said with a small bow, having reminded himself that in this reality, he had never met Elrond’s children. They were exactly as tall and willowy, yet muscular as he remembered. They wore their hair differently from each other, a fact that Bilbo had always been grateful for. Elladan’s hair was intricately braided. The thin braids started above his ears, and with several strands interwoven, falling loosely down his back. Elrohir, on the other hand, left his hair to flow free for the most part, with only a couple of small braids left loose in his silken mane. Kíli was eying the two dark haired twins with a mix of intrigue and uncertainty, a hand coming to fiddle unthinkingly at the tips of his own hair, short in comparison to the elves. 

“Kíli,” he said, without the usual bow and pledges of service. 

“Elladan-”

“And Elrohir-”

“At yours,” the elves said, surprisingly similar to how Fíli and Kíli introduced themselves at Bag End. 

“So you’re the dwarven archer,” Elrohir said, not unkindly, giving Kíli a once over. Kíli adjusted his posture, standing as tall as he could, although still barely making it up to their collarbone.

“Not a choice I’ve seen many dwarves make,” Elladan added with a raised eyebrow. Kíli huffed. “Who taught you?”

“I taught myself,” Kíli said, shooting Bilbo a confused and irritated look, clearly wanting to know why Bilbo had put him in this situation. Bilbo felt a momentary twinge of guilt, but knew, or hoped, rather, that this would turn out the way he wanted it to.

“Why don’t you show us?” Elrohir said with a calculating smile, gesturing to a rack of beautiful elven bows. “The smallest ones are for younglings, but they should fit well. They haven’t been used in an age.”

“I’m not showing you anything,” Kíli said in an impressive imitation of his uncle.

“Why? Are you concerned that you will not compare to our skills?” Elladan said mockingly. Elrohir gave his brother a warning look, but the taunting words appeared to spur Kíli into action. He grabbed a bow and quiver of arrows and marched back over to face the targets, then shot several in quick succession, managing to hit a surprising amount dead centre. 

“Not bad,” Elrohir said, with an appraising look. “You’ve a keen eye.”

“Your elbow should be higher,” Elladan said unapologetically. 

“What do you know?” Kíli spat, ears red. Elladan raised an eyebrow but turned to his brother. Wordlessly, they shot their first arrows at separate targets, hitting each dead centre, then switched targets, not only hitting their mark, but splitting the other’s arrow in half with deadly precision. Kíli’s mouth fell open and he did not bother hiding it. 

“Good enough for you, dwarf?” Elladan said with a genuine laugh. 

“They’re showing off,” Bilbo said under his breath, as Kíli kept his silence, jaw slack. 

“Can you - can you show me how to do that?” Kíli asked after a moment. 

“Of course we will,” Elrohir said, clapping Kíli on the shoulder good naturedly. Bilbo smiled, relieved. He knew Kíli would get along with Elrond’s sons, who, despite being entirely too old for it, still were quite mischievous, but he had been concerned about the deeply ingrained prejudices, on both sides. He smiled proudly at Kíli, who was doing better than Bilbo could have hoped. He took a seat on a stone bench at the edge of the field and watched as Kíli and the twins exchanged tips and tricks. Soon enough, laughter filled Bilbo’s ears and he smiled, pulling out his pipe. He knew that the dwarves would not venture far from the place they had set up camp, and so he did not worry about Kíli being discovered. 

Elladan and Elrohir worked quite well with Kíli. Elladan managed to keep Kíli on his toes, constantly challenging and teasing him. Elrohir was more cautious by nature, but was very curious about the way that Kíli held his bow-- more horizontal, and low to the ground. He was also more inclined to give helpful pointers, whereas Elladan seemed to enjoy pushing Kíli to figure things out for himself. By the end of the day, the young dwarf had warmed up immensely to Elrond’s sons, and had promised them he would meet them there the next day for further practice. He ran over to Bilbo with a smile and slung his arm around the hobbit’s shoulders.

“I must admit, I did doubt your intentions, but I am grateful to you!” His smile was wide and Bilbo let out a happy chuckle. 

“It was my pleasure. Fíli said you’ve never had the opportunity to practice with anyone else. There’s no one that excels at archery quite like them. Dwarves and elves use their weapons quite differently, and I thought this could be a good way to learn from each other.” Kíli looked thoughtful, then smiled.

“They’re not so bad, those elves,” Kíli said with a laugh. He fell silent after a moment. “Say, Bilbo, do you think maybe Ori could come with us tomorrow? Only, all he has to protect himself is his slingshot, and I worry for him.” Kíli hung his head and spoke quietly. Bilbo smiled softly and reached up to pat his back.

“I think that’s a very good idea, Kíli. And very thoughtful too.” Kíli smiled at the praise and the two set off towards the dwarf camp for dinner. When they arrived, the dwarves had made a fire out of what looked like a broken chair from the high table at dinner several nights previous. Bilbo scowled as he noticed Dwalin and Nori breaking apart a table with their axes, exchanging smirks. Kíli’s expression grew stony.

“Look, Kee!” Fíli called his brother over with a mischievous grin. “We had to cook our meat somehow and it is by the  _ generosity _ of the elves that we’ve managed to start a fire.”

“Are those the tables from dinner?” Kíli asked, eyeing the flames with an unreadable expression. Fíli walked over, looking concerned. 

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly, looking Kíli up and down for anything that might be bothering him, hands coming to rest on his forearms. Bilbo looked around, only to discover that many of the dwarves had frozen, listening intently, though poorly pretending not to.  _ The nosy bastards. _ Kíli shook his brothers hands off and took a step back.

“Are we not guests in their home?” Kíli said intently. “I somehow doubt they will be as gracious about our behaviour as our burglar was.” Bilbo looked around anxiously. Despite the crackle of the fire, it appeared that the bulk of their conversation had been heard by nearly all, with the exception of Óin, who often waited for Glóin to catch him up on things he’d missed. Balin was giving Kíli a proud smile, but he was among the only ones. For the most part, the dwarves were closed off and hard to read. Dwalin’s lips were pursed tightly, brows furrowed, eyes flicking between Fíli and Kíli. Thorin, to Dwalin’s left, went through a myriad of emotions in a very small amount of time that Bilbo would not have noticed Last Time. Thorin’s initial reaction was pride, oddly enough. He eyed his nephew with a pleasant surprise that morphed into anger and incredulity as he seemed to understand the implications of Kíli’s statement. Bilbo could only imagine what might be going through his mind. He was certainly angered by any mention of elves, especially since Kíli was indirectly defending them. There was also the fact that in a way, Kíli was questioning Thorin’s choices as a leader. 

Kíli was not watching Thorin, Dwalin, or Balin, however, he was looking at Fíli. His blond brother was staring at Kíli with an incredulous expression. Bilbo looked away, feeling as though he were intruding on something incredibly personal. After a moment, of tense silence, Kíli set his face into a scowl and stalked off, joining Ori, who was sitting on the perimeter of the camp, leaving Bilbo all alone in the very centre, at the mercy of all of the dwarves’ stares. 

“Right, err…” he pointed vaguely towards Kíli and Ori, and promptly locked his gaze to the ground and walked away, face flaming.  _ That went well.  _ He scurried over to the young dwarves, not sure if it was wise for him to go to them, to pick sides, but also knowing that it was here that he was least likely to be assaulted by accusatory glares. Kíli and Ori were already muttering furiously between themselves, Kíli no doubt catching Ori up on what had happened that day. Bilbo sat with them for a short while, Kíli spent most of it trying to justify his behaviour to Ori and Bilbo, although Bilbo suspected that what Kíli really wanted was validation, which he and Ori were both keen to give.

“Mister Bilbo,” Ori said, after being on the reciprocating end of another one of Dori’s haughty, disdainful looks. “Could we maybe go sit in your room?” Bilbo glanced between Ori and Kíli and the rest of the Company, all of whom seeming to have an opinion on what had happened, with a grimace. 

“Yes, Ori, I think that might be a good idea,” he said. Ori stood and offered a hand to Bilbo, who used it to pull himself to his feet. Bilbo ignored the eyes boring into his back as he, Ori, and Kíli retreated. They walked in silence, Kíli with his hands shoved into his pockets and his hair falling over his fuming face, Ori keeping his gaze low, plodding next to Bilbo in silence.

“Where were you today?” Bilbo and Ori froze mid stride and Kíli tensed as Fíli’s demanding voice echoed down the hallway. They turned to the blond dwarf who was staring at his brother expectantly. Bilbo opened his mouth, ready to cover for Kíli, but Kíli shook his head.

“I’ve been practicing my archery,” Kíli said, eyes locked to Fíli’s.  _ Oh, this is not going to end well... _

“But why? You’re already skilled,” Fíli said, a crease appearing between his brows.

“I’ve been consulting with some archers,” Kíli said, back straight, shoulders tense.

“Who?” Fíli’s eyes narrowed.

“E-elladan and Elrohir, Lord Elrond’s sons.” Kíli’s fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Elves,” Fíli spat. “Why would you do this?” 

“They’re actually not half bad,” Kíli said. “And they’re really skilled. I’ve learned much already.” That much was true, even from one afternoon, and Bilbo knew next to nothing about archery. 

“You could have done that somewhere else,” said Fíli.

“Where, Fee?” Kíli gestured around them wildly. “In case you haven’t noticed, We’re the only dwarves here. Who exactly am I meant to learn from?” 

“ _ Anyone _ else,” Fíli said coldly. “Have you not been paying attention to Uncle? Did you not listen when he spoke of the treachery of elves?”

“No, I listened,” Kíli said. “But he’s too stubborn to see sense. You should meet Elladan and Elrohir, Fee. I think you’d like them.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Fíli said, jaw jutted out in defiance. “Why can’t you just be responsible for once? Is it impossible for you to think before you act?”

“I’m thinking just fine, it’s you who’s not thinking,” Kíli all but shouted, then adopted a mocking manner. “ _ Look at Fíli, the perfect heir. _ You’re such a pawn. Have you ever had an original thought, or do they all have to be approved by Uncle and Balin first?” Kíli’s words seemed to achieve exactly what he intended. Fíli fell back, shocked. Then his expression steeled.

“You’re just angry because nobody trusts you to be anything but a reckless, stupid child,” Fíli growled. “Maybe now you’ll see why.”

“That is  _ not _ true,” Kíli spat, eyes glistening with angry tears.

“Do what you want, Kíli, but when this bites you in the ass, you won’t get any sympathy from me,” Fíli said, full of malice. Bilbo, who had grown up without siblings, was left floundering. Was this normal? How badly had he messed up? Would this damage be irreparable? How could he have meddled in the brother’s relationship this badly?

“Don’t you act all high and mighty, Fíli,” Kíli called, voice echoing through the halls, following the swiftly retreating elder brother. “We all know you’re just as useless as you feel,” Kíli said, face twisted into an angry grimace. If Fíli heard this, he did not show it, and soon rounded a corner and was lost to view.

“Fuck,” Kíli swore, whirling around to face Ori and Bilbo, face etched with rage and unshed tears. “Mahal, he makes me crazy.” Ori nodded sympathetically. Bilbo watched, at a loss for what to do, worrying about every possible situation that could arise from this, the rift between such an important duo. How could he have foreseen this? Had it been preventable? And what was he to do now to fix it? Ori nudged Bilbo subtly and Bilbo startled.

“Right, well that was rather unfortunate,” Bilbo said, feeling distinctly awkward and fidgety. Kíli scoffed, but his face was sagging. “Shall we go back to our original plan and head to my room?”

“That’s a good idea,” Ori said, voice sounding quiet in comparison to the screaming match that had just occurred. 

“Yes,” Bilbo said, nodding once then continuing his walk, thinking furiously about what he was going to say once he could no longer escape the young dwarves. Kíli walked ahead of them, fists shoved into his pockets. “Ju-just in here,” Bilbo called as Kíli stormed past Bilbo’s room.

“Right,” Kíli said, turning jerkily back around and walking through the door as Bilbo held it open for him. Ori perched on the spindly armchair in the corner and Kíli threw himself onto Bilbo’s bed, burying his face in his hands. Bilbo took a moment to observe the rather morose looking boys before sitting next to Kíli with a heavy sigh. 

“Kíli, I feel as though I must apologize,” Bilbo said, hesitating before putting a hand on his shoulder. “If I hadn’t meddled in your affairs, this whole thing wouldn’t have happened.”

“You’re right,” Kíli said, looking up at Bilbo with a curious expression. Bilbo tried to suppress his flinch. “But Bilbo, you needn’t apologize.” Kíli said. 

“But now you and Fíli are at odds,” Bilbo said.

“Yes, well it wasn’t the first time we’ve fought, nor will it be the last,” Kíli said bitterly, kicking his feet in the air. 

“It did seem quite upsetting though,” Bilbo pushed. 

“You don’t have any siblings, do you, Mister Boggins?” Kíli asked, with an impish twinkle. 

“Well I-- no, I can’t say that I do.”

“Trust me, that was nothing,” Kíli said with a laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ori, tell Bilbo about when Nori came home,” Kíli said, startling Ori out of some deep thought or other. 

“Oh yes,” Ori said, grimacing. “That was quite bad, even by their standards.”

“Their standards?” Bilbo asked.

“Nori and Dori have fought like elves and dwarves their entire lives,” Kíli supplied. “Go on, Ori, tell him!”

“This was just a few years ago, actually,” Ori said, fiddling with a fluff on his gloves. “Nori often disappears. Sometimes for a few weeks or months, sometimes much longer. This time he was away for well over a year. Dori was convinced he was dead, but Dori tends to overreact, so that’s unsurprising. And then out of nowhere, Nori walks in like he’d never left. Didn’t even knock. But you should have seen Dori’s face. I didn’t know he could look so relieved, yet so murderous at the same time,” Ori said with a snort. “And oh, they screamed and screamed at each other all night, and they did not go easy on each other either.”

“And Ori, what did you do?” asked Kíli, holding back laughter. Ori flushed.

“Well, see,” Ori said. “I was in the room with Dori when Nori came back, but once they started going after each other, I couldn’t leave, so I just sat there all night. I don’t think they even realized I was there.”

“But that’s not even the funny part,” Kíli said. “Go on, Ori, tell Bilbo what happened next.”

“I fell asleep,” Ori said, shaking his head ruefully. “Right on the floor.” 

“You fell asleep on the floor,” Bilbo repeated as Kíli burst into guffaws. 

“Mhm. When I woke up, they were both gone.” There was a shift in mood ever so slightly, and Bilbo knew that this was no longer funny. “Dori had kicked Nori out. They didn’t speak to each other again until I told them I was going on this quest.”

“What?” Bilbo asked. “But they’re speaking now. Did they ever resolve it?”

“They’re speaking, yes. But it’s just like it was before. They’re constantly arguing, doing petty things to get the other angry. They know each other too well, is the problem.”

“And it’s been how long?” Bilbo asked.

“Oh, a couple of years, I think. But these things have been happening on and off since before Nori was of age,” said Ori.

“And what of your parents? Didn’t they ever intervene?” 

“Oh,” Ori said, shifting in his seat with a grimace. “We all have different fathers, and none of them stuck around for long. And our mother, er, wasn’t always well.”

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo said, unable to think of anything else as Kíli shot Ori a sympathetic look. “I didn’t know.”

“That’s alright,” Ori said. “Dori took it upon himself to raise us. He’s always worked so hard. Nori works hard too, but not in the way that Dori wants. He wants things to be done the right way. The decent way, with no shortcuts or cheating… Nori has never concerned himself with such restrictions.”

“I see,” Bilbo said. Knowing the brothers individually, he could very well see how these conflicts had arisen. Dori was overbearing and quite righteous, whereas Nori was more lax. Bilbo couldn’t speak on Nori’s morality, as he was much more reserved about such things, but he knew that Nori had sticky fingers, and had heard that Nori and Dwalin had a strange sort of tension. Apparently before the quest, Dwalin had been searching for a reason to put Nori behind bars for years, but had never managed to catch him red-handed. 

“See?” Kíli said, interrupting Bilbo’s thoughts. “Brothers fight.”

“I suppose so,” said Bilbo, although he was still replaying Fíli and Kíli’s angry words in his mind.

“Well what about you then?” Kíli asked. Bilbo raised an eyebrow at Kíli’s abrupt topic change. “What was it like being the only child?”

“It was good,” Bilbo said, hoping to leave it at that, only to be faced with two unimpressed dwarves. He cleared his throat, then nodded. “Right, well I was very close with my mother and father growing up. They were as different as can be. My father was cautious and protective and my mother was brash and adventurous. I suppose I ended up a strange mixture of the two. Mother would drag me along on mini adventures and father would tuck me into bed and tell me stories, and that was how it always was. As I got older, I grew more cautious. I was always much more inclined to stay at home and read or garden with father, than to go adventuring. That sort of thing simply doesn’t happen in Hobbiton, you see, and the older I got, the more aware I was of that fact. I think my mother was disappointed,” Bilbo said with a sad smile. “Of course, she never said anything. Always hoping I’d run off with her, she was.” Bilbo chuckled. “She settled down a lot after Father died though, and fell ill shortly after. She started asking me to tell her stories, just like my father told me when I was young. I think it comforted her...” Bilbo trailed off. 

“A sorry lot we are,” Kíli said with a weak laugh. Bilbo hummed his agreement, while Ori simply nodded. “Right, let’s move on. Tell us, Mister Boggins, what do hobbits do for fun?”

  
  


It was like a project, he told himself. To get to know the other dwarves. The dwarves he hadn’t known as well Last Time. And truthfully, Elrond was right. Bilbo would accomplish nothing by being cool and distant. Besides, if he succeeded in dying for them, there would be no one to remember him fondly. He would just be the odd little hobbit who kept to himself until he died. What a dismal existence that would be. What would they do with his body? Leave it behind? Throw it in an unmarked grave? That was probably more than he deserved.  _ Alright, enough of that,  _ he told himself firmly. _ Do it now, or you never will. _ Steeling himself, he walked up to Bombur. 

“Hello, Bombur,” he said with what he hoped was a natural looking smile. Bombur was one of the only dwarves that hadn’t seemed to feel too strongly about the events of last night, and so Bilbo figured he was as good a person as any to start with. And he knew just how to approach it. Bombur stared at Bilbo with a slightly panicked expression.

“Bombur, the lad said hi,” Bofur called, from who even knew where. Bombur gave himself a shake, then smiled tentatively. Goodness, had Bombur always been this shy? 

“Hello, Master Baggins,” he said, hand twitching at his side as though going to wave but thinking better of it. “How are you today?”

“I’m quite well, thank you,” Bilbo lied. “I was just going to go down to the kitchens for a spot of tea. Would you care to join me?”

“The e-elven kitchens?” Bombur asked with a nervous edge to his voice.

“Yes, those,” Bilbo replied, tapping his big toe restlessly, smile still pasted onto his face. Bombur looked over his shoulder where Bofur seemed to materialize out of thin air, wordlessly asking his older brother a question. 

“Sounds like fun, that does,” Bofur grinned, tipping his hat in Bilbo’s direction. Again, Bombur gave his brother a pointed look, and Bofur sighed. “Mind if I join you?” he asked. Bombur looked pleased.

“Of course not,” said Bilbo. “The more the merrier, truly.” The two dwarves followed Bilbo, Bofur chattering aimlessly, and Bombur silently watching as they wandered through the winding hallways. 

“How did you know where the kitchens were?” Bombur asked, speaking for the first time in several minutes as they walked into the mercifully empty kitchen. Bilbo balked, nerves spiking suddenly, but he shook them off.

“Never underestimate a hobbit’s ability to find food,” he said cheerily. 

“Mahal’s balls, these elves have been holding out on us,” Bofur said in awe, looking at several large pantries stocked with enough food to last several winters.

“To their defense, we have been using their furniture as kindling,” Bilbo said pointedly. Bombur flushed and looked down, but Bofur let out a loud laugh.

“Aye, that’s right, we have,” Bofur said.

“So Bombur, what are you hungry for?” Bilbo asked, watching the dwarf who could no longer help the smile on his face. 

“Could you- could you maybe show me how to cook your favourite food?” he asked, twiddling his thumbs. 

“Oh, of course I could, Bombur,” Bilbo said. “I didn’t have all that much time to prepare for so many house guests, so it would be nice to show you true hobbit fare. It’s far better than that unprepared nonsense I served you in Bag End.”

“Now Bilbo,” said Bofur, eyes raking across the kitchen. “I don’t mean to ruin the moment, but I don’t know how we’re going to cook in here,” he said, emphasizing his point by leaning his arms on one of the counters, that were all, in fact, the proper height for an elf, and as such, were at shoulder level for Bofur. Bilbo laughed. 

“I’m sure we’ll manage,” he said, turning into one of the pantries and grabbing a wooden stool sitting in the corner. 

Bilbo did a quick check of the pantries, pulling things out as he went, until eventually he had amassed a small pile on one of the elegant wood counters. 

“Bofur, I need your height,” Bilbo said, passing a bundle of herbs to Bofur, who was the tallest and had been placing ingredients onto the table for Bilbo. “Top shelf, there. I need the poppy seeds and then the mixing bowl from up top in the kitchen.”

“Mister Baggins, sir,” Bofur said with a salute, replacing Bilbo atop the stool and reaching onto his tiptoes for the missing ingredient. “Just as you ordered,” he said. “Bombur, catch!” Bofur tossed the pouch of seeds to his brother, who nearly fumbled it, but ended up catching it again with a smile.

“What’re we making, then?” Bofur asked, dragging the stool into the cooking area with ease. 

“Does lemon poppyseed loaf sound good?” Bilbo asked. 

“Yes,” Bombur said quickly.

  
  


“What do you think, Bombur?” Bilbo asked as they surveyed several loaves cooling on the counter, next to where Bofur had chosen to perch himself, legs dangling over the edge right near Bombur’s face, which was definitely not a coincidence, if Bofur’s gleeful expression was anything to go by.

“They look really good, Bilbo,” Bombur said with much more ease than he had at the beginning of the afternoon. “Time for glaze?” he asked, clutching a bowlful of it to his chest with an excited grin.

“Go right ahead,” he replied. Bombur stood on his tiptoes atop a stool and started spreading the lemony glaze, swatting his brother’s feet away from his face multiple times.

“Ooh, that smells excellent,” Bofur said. “I for one, think we make a great team.”

“You barely did anything,” Bombur said, rolling his eyes. Indeed, Bofur’s usefulness had been exhausted after he had gotten all the hard to reach supplies, and had instead sat and critiqued their cooking techniques, though it was clear that he had been making it up on the spot and obviously had no idea how to bake at all, and occasionally sticking his finger into the batter, or grabbing a pinch of poppyseeds to crunch on.

“Oh, but you’d have been desperately bored without me,” Bofur said with a self-satisfied smirk. 

“Yes, yes, your contributions were absolutely necessary to our success,” Bilbo said with unmistakable sarcasm. Bombur laughed and Bofur hopped off the table.

“Aye, no need to thank me for it,” he said. “Bombur, enough.” Ha gave Bombur’s hand a rap with a dishcloth as he reached for one of the loaves. “You’ve already had half the batter.”

“Sorry,” said Bombur, looking sheepish. 

“That’s quite alright, Bombur,” Bilbo said sharply, eying Bofur who seemed like he wanted to give his brother more of a hard time. “There will be plenty for us once everyone else has some.”

“Oh good,” said Bombur, rubbing his hands on his pant legs absently. 

* * *

The chilly air of Laketown nipped greedily at his exposed ears and toes and Bilbo pulled his cloak tighter around his neck in a bid to keep the chill away as he stepped into the cool fall air. The light from the house they were staying in was swallowed as the door shut and he paused in the darkness. He did not really want to be outside, but nor did he want to be inside. Inside was hot and humid and loud. Inside was laughter and smoke and ale. His friends, who seemed bolstered by their proximity to the mountain, enlivened at how far they had come and how little they had left. They had apparently forgotten about the dragon, something that both concerned and annoyed Bilbo, for it was him that would be dealing with the dragon first. Him who would be the one burnt to a crisp should something go wrong. He would allow them their fun though. He wouldn’t be the one to spoil a mood so fine, so rare on their journey. 

The only other person who seemed to feel the way he did was Thorin. Although brooding was not uncommon for the tall dwarf, he had been exceptionally somber since their arrival in Laketown. In all fairness, he had been kept in a cell separate from everyone else for weeks in an Elven jail, but Bilbo thought it was more than that. In fact, he had several guesses as to why Thorin was in such a mood, but he wouldn’t dare mention it to the king, or anyone else for that matter. Bilbo’s speculations and curiosity about the workings of Thorin Oakenshield’s mind was something he did not want to broadcast to the rest of the Company. 

Laketown at night was an unfriendly place. Everything was much too large, except the walkways, which were far too thin. Bilbo could not help morbidly wondering how often people fell in and drowned, never to be seen again. He shivered and looked away, concentrating on his footing. Winter had come early here, too, it would seem. There were chunks of ice floating in the still black lake and a slippery sheen of frost on the boardwalks, making Bilbo grateful for the grip his feet gave him. He could not help but be on edge, after all that he had seen in the recent months. He half expected something to jump out of the shadows at him, push him into the deadly water, or worse. He was very glad of his little blade strapped at his hip. A movement up ahead, on one of the farthest boardwalks startled Bilbo out of his thoughts, and his hand flew to his sword.

“At ease, Master Baggins,” Thorin said, his voice alleviating Bilbo’s nerves instantly. He let out a relieved sigh.

“Thorin,” Bilbo said in a near whisper, approaching the king quickly. Thorin did not look at Bilbo, but adjusted his stance so that Bilbo could stand next to him, eyes cast to the mountain. Enormous and solitary, just barely illuminated by the moonlight, Erebor stood in all its might. An unattainable force of nature. Bilbo felt a chill run down his spine at the sight. Something drew his eyes to the dwarf standing just a little too close, staring almost unblinkingly to the North. Thorin was like the mountain. Lonesome, full of majesty, might, and mystery, his face silhouetted delicately in a silvery glow.  _ Unattainable. _

“Are you nervous?” Bilbo asked. Thorin’s expression did not waver, but his eyes flicked momentarily to Bilbo, questioning.

“About what, Master Baggins?” Thorin asked, looking down at Bilbo now, face falling into shadow.

“Abou- about the dragon,” Bilbo stuttered, looking away from the dwarf’s gaze as though burned. 

“Of course not.” Thorin’s voice was changed as his eyes found the Lonely Mountain again, as though in a trance. “Nothing will stand between me and my Kingdom.” Bilbo looked at Thorin sharply, assessing. Something did not sit right with him. It was a simple matter of wording, surely an overreaction. Thorin always referred to Erebor as his home. He was looking for his home, fighting for his home. ‘Kingdom’ felt cold and empty, shallow.

“I see,” Bilbo said, biting the inside of his lip. 

“Worry not,” Thorin said, voice odd and breathy. “You will see your books and your garden again.”

“I- yes, I thank you for your assurances,” Bilbo said, patting his legs absently, careful not to brush Thorin’s furs with his bare fingers. “That’s not all I worry about though, you do realize?” 

“Of course,” Thorin said, clenching his fists into the hem of his cloak. “The Company will miss you. Bofur, Fíli and Kíli especially.”

“Yes, well,” Bilbo said, clearing his throat of a lump that would not go away. “As I’ve said, tea is at four,” Bilbo said firmly. He started fiddling with the ring in his pocket, suddenly inexplicably nervous. “I know that once you’re King, you’ll be quite busy, and I’m sure you’ll have far more important things to do than to visit an old hobbit… But should you ever return to the Blue Mountains, do stop by.” Bilbo cleared his throat again, not daring to look at his companion yet as silence stretched between them. “I’ve been told my lemon poppyseed loaf is fit for a king. I wouldn’t mind putting that to the test.”

Thorin still said nothing and Bilbo fidgeted nervously, warring with himself on what to do. With hesitation, he looked up. He needn’t have worried. Thorin was gazing at him with what could only be described as fondness. The second their eyes locked, Bilbo swelled with a pleasant feeling and he could not help the bubble of nervous laughter that spilled out. Thorin’s mouth lifted into a gentle smile, the tips of his teeth just showing under his lips, eyes on fire, even in the darkness, warming Bilbo from the inside out. 

* * *

There was absolutely no reason Bilbo’s hands should be shaking as he cut into the warm, moist loaf, the scent of citrus enveloping his senses. What was causing this tremor, when all he was doing was serving old friends, something with which any and all hobbits are familiar. 

“Paws off, Kíli,” Bilbo said distractedly, swatting him away as he spotted the youngest dwarf’s hands in the corner of his eyes. “Sit down, you’ll get some soon enough.”

“Oh, come on Bilbo,” Kíli said with his most pleading expression. “Don’t you think you should serve the prince first?”

“Shut up, Kíli,” Ori called from somewhere behind them, making Kíli look over his shoulder and mutter something to his friend.

“Manners, Ori,” Bilbo said, pointing in the general direction of Ori’s voice, still trying to fend Kíli off. “No, I won’t be serving you first, this isn’t a monarchy. And if it were, Thorin would be served first.”

“Oh, but Uncle won’t be having any,” Kíli said.

“Sure he will,” Bilbo replied, waving dismissively. 

“No, he won’t,” Kíli insisted. “He doesn’t like cakes.” Kíli seemed so sure of himself and for a moment, Bilbo faltered. Had he misremembered that moment, all those years ago alone on the docks. Surely not… 

“Well, that’s just simply untrue,” Bilbo said, more assertive than he felt. “I will serve him, and he will enjoy it,” Bilbo said, muttering the last sentence under his breath. “I’ll show him fit for a king.” He swept up a plate with a large helping of the lemon loaf, and a dainty elvish fork, and marched towards Thorin, who was sitting, as usual, slightly apart from everyone else, staring off into the distance. Huffing, and already regretting his decision, he came to a dead stop, nearly losing his balance as the momentum caught up with him. Thorin raked his eyes over Bilbo, a questioning look on his face.

“Master Baggins?” Thorin said, when Bilbo failed to speak. 

“Thorin,” Bilbo said rigidly, then winced, waving his free hand as though he could simply wipe away his mistake. “Master Oakenshield,” he corrected, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I made a loaf.”

“I can see that,” Thorin said with a hint of amusement. “You’ve caused quite the excitement.” He nodded back to the table with several trays of loaves, which had now been surrounded. Glóin had stepped in to help Bofur and Bombur serve the seemingly endless string of hungry dwarves. 

“Er, yes,” Bilbo said, turning back to face Thorin. “Sorry about that.”

“There is nothing to apologize for,” Thorin said. Bilbo paused again, not quite sure how to continue the conversation, nor if he wanted to.

“Right, er, thank you,” he said, stepping back with one foot, ready to retreat if necessary. “I brought you a plate. That is, if you would like some. Kíli did say that you didn’t care for cakes, but I figured I would bring you some anyways, just so you know that the offer is there.” Bilbo cursed his mouth and its inability to say anything the way he wanted to say it. It was truly a Took curse, passed down from his mother, who had also never been able to hold her tongue. Thorin stood, instantly a rather intimidating figure, towering over Bilbo.

“I’d’ve thought you’d have learnt not to take anything Kíli says too seriously by now, Master Baggins,” Thorin said with a small smirk. Bilbo’s mouth fell open slightly and the fingers on his free hand twitched. Thorin looked at Bilbo expectantly. “I would very much like a piece, if you’re still offering.”

“I- right, of course,” Bilbo said, all but thrusting the plate into a confused Thorin’s hands. “Do enjoy,” he said with a sharp nod. He turned on his heel and started to walk away, then realized that he still had the fork. With a grimace, he walked slowly back around. 

“The fork,” he said stupidly, holding the utensil out to the unmistakably amused dwarf, who took it with a nod. Bilbo all but fled back to the table where things seemed to have cleared up, feeling like a complete incompetent idiot, who couldn’t even talk to an old friend without seeming like a complete dolt, only to find all the trays empty, with nothing left for him. His shoulder drooped and it was just then that his stomach took the opportune moment to rumble quite loudly at him, probably feeling quite betrayed at all the delicious aromas and sights, only to not receive any of it. Rather glum, he turned on his heel, hoping for a moment alone with his pipe, only for Bofur to call after him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Bofur asked. Bilbo sighed and looked back at his friend, who had a shifty expression. “You didn’t think we’d leave nothing for you now, did you?”

“We saved you three whole pieces,” Bombur said with a rosy grin, brandishing a full plate from behind his back. 

“Oh Bombur, you shouldn’t have,” Bilbo said, feeling strangely overwhelmed. 

“But we did,” Bofur said simply, with an exaggerated bow. 

“Have a seat, lad,” Balin called from a spot on the floor, patting an empty pillow next to him. Bilbo took the plate being offered by Bombur tentatively. 

“Thank you so much for your help,” Bilbo said, feeling slightly awkward, shuffling his feet. “I wouldn’t have been able to do all-”

“Oh hush with all your manners,” Bofur interrupted. “Sit, relax!”

“Well,” Bilbo said, unable to keep from smiling. “If you insist.”

  
  


Bilbo was sitting on a stone wall at the edge of the terrace, overlooking the valley that had once been his home, drenched in the colours of sunset, puffing on his pipe, a pit of dread deep inside him. They intended to leave the next day and things were not looking good, the imminence of their departure making it impossible to ignore. Fíli and Kíli had yet to speak to each other, a fact that seemed to make Thorin especially angry. The king had also been very unhappy about the elven bows that Lord Elrond had gifted to Kíli and Ori at his sons’ recommendation, but there was little Thorin could do to argue, as really, they had been done a great service. Nori and Dwalin too, seemed unhappy, muttering together and eyeing the bows with disgust. Dori, on the other hand, much to everyone, especially his brothers’ surprise, had been grudgingly grateful to the elves, although most of his gratitude was given to Kíli. 

Worse still than petty dwarven drama, Bilbo knew that as soon as they left, he would be counting the steps until he found the ring again, and that scared him to no end. He had nearly been able to dispel its presence from his mind while in their elven sanctuary, but as their departure loomed over him like a dark cloud, the hobbit found his mind muddled and heavy with thoughts of the little golden trinket. Heavy footfalls caught Bilbo’s attention, and he was surprised to see Thorin approaching him slowly. He was tense, his face set in an uncomfortable grimace. He stopped several feet away from Bilbo and cleared his throat. 

“Master Baggins,” Thorin said with a nod. Bilbo’s eyebrows rose and he turned to face Thorin. 

“Master Oakenshield,” Bilbo mimicked Thorin’s formal behaviour with trepidation. 

“I wanted to -” Thorin frowned, and Bilbo was torn between fear and amusement. “I could not help but notice how at ease you have been here.”

“How at- at ease I’ve been?” Bilbo repeated. This was not what Bilbo was expecting to hear, and he was suddenly very nervous about what Thorin would say next. He wouldn’t make him stay, would he? He couldn’t! He tried to search for answers in Thorin’s gaze, but the dwarf would not meet his eyes. “Forgive me, but I fail to see the relevance of my  _ comfort _ ,” Bilbo said, finding his words sticky in his throat. Thorin growled under his breath, his hands twitching as though desperate to form fists.

“I need to know if you intend to continue with us for the rest of the quest,” Thorin said, finally meeting Bilbo’s eyes, with a carefully guarded expression. Thorin’s face morphed into shock, and Bilbo realized that he had let out a rather derisive laugh at Thorin’s words. He forced a neutral expression onto his face. Of course Thorin didn’t trust him, why would he? Bilbo’s stomach clenched uncomfortably. He wanted nothing more than to go to Thorin and pledge his undying allegiance to him. To tell him that he would stop at nothing to see him on the throne of Erebor. But he could do none of those things. 

“Yes, I will come,” Bilbo said quietly. Thorin stared at him for a moment, stormy blue eyes searching for  _ something _ . 

“Good,” he said after a moment, then turned on his heel and walked away. Bilbo buried his face in his hands, pipe entirely forgotten on the stone beside him, and swore under his breath. He did not hear Thorin hesitate, pausing as if unsure of what to say, but when his voice rang out again, Bilbo startled, cursing himself for how jumpy he seemed to have become. “I did want to say,” Thorin said haltingly, face hidden in shadows. “I enjoyed your lemon loaf.” On that note, Thorin really was gone, leaving Bilbo shaking his head incredulously in his wake. 

  
  


The next day dawned bright and warm. They left with the blessing of Lord Elrond this time, laden with food, weapons, and firewood that was  _ not _ the legs of broken tables and chairs. Thorin had been grudgingly grateful to Lord Elrond, and Elrond, in turn, had been quite gracious, promising shelter at Imladris if he or any of his people ever needed. Gandalf had, once again, remained behind, promising to meet up with them in the Misty Mountains with Bilbo’s assurances that all would be well in his absence.

Bilbo’s status in the group had changed dramatically in the two weeks they had spent at Rivendell, mostly by his own fault. He had gained shadows in Kíli and Ori respectively, after many afternoons at the archery range. Bofur had finally wormed his way into Bilbo’s circle, as well, and they had spent many an afternoon smoking together, Bofur making commentary on Kíli’s aim, or Ori’s form as they practiced with the elves. Bofur held no love for the elves, but nor did he carry any animosity. They had housed and fed them and given them sanctuary, and Bofur was not one to take a gift for granted. Bilbo had even befriended the desperately shy, as Bilbo had recently discovered, Bombur. Even Dori seemed at the very least, to not openly dislike him. Balin, on the other hand, had noticed the very clear tension between Bilbo and his little group, and the rest of the dwarves, and seemed to opt out of taking any sides. While he was still friendly with Bilbo, he distanced himself. Whether that was because he saw that Bilbo was starting to open up on his own, or because he did not want to be involved in the drama, Bilbo wasn’t sure. Bilbo still did not quite feel like he belonged, but after a month of isolating himself, these relationships that he had created, in such a different way to Last Time were good. He had been smiling and laughing in a way that he had thought he never would again. He hoped desperately that it would not come back to haunt him, as they made their way up the Misty Mountains. He tried to remind himself of Lord Elrond’s advice every time he felt the urge to shut down. Closing his heart would not save them.

  
  


It started off easy enough. Walking into the Misty Mountains felt at first, like walking into a dense forest. Although the incline was there, it was not always unbearable. In fact, you could even carry out conversation without becoming out of breath, something they would take for granted no longer after their trek through the mountains. The forest would often open up to large creeks or rivers, and they took advantage of having fresh water to drink and bathe in.

“Alright lad, you’ve hidden well, but there’s no escaping it,” Bofur said, jogging to catch up to Bilbo on a particularly warm and humid day. Bilbo was drenched in sweat that turned cold instantly at Bofur’s words. 

“W-what?”

“It’s your turn to grace us with a song,” Bofur said cheerily. Bilbo let out a breath of relief, then sucked it back in. He did not want to sing one bit.

“I can’t sing,” Bilbo said.

“Anyone can sing,” Bofur said.

“I don’t know any songs,” Bilbo lied. Bofur stared at him disbelievingly. 

“Now I know that’s not true.”

“No, no it’s true,” Bilbo said, wagging his finger. Bofur looked around, with false confusion. 

“Now if you don’t know any songs, then what might this be?” Bofur asked, stopping in the middle of the path and opening his arms out wide. “There’s an inn, there’s an inn, there’s a merry old inn,” Bofur boomed with a wide smile, getting the tune absolutely and entirely wrong. Bilbo scoured his mind for when Bofur could have possibly heard the nonsense song Bilbo had made up well before any of the dreadful Ring business. Oh drat, he had been singing it in the kitchen, hadn’t he?  _ Bother _ !

“Nope. No, that is not how it goes,” Bilbo said, shaking his head at Bofur ruefully. 

“Oh, but I think it is,” Bofur said. “Something something old grey hill…” he then mumbled several unintelligible words. “Beer so brown the Man in the Moon himself came down--”

“Alright, stop,” Bilbo said. “Please stop.”

“Well, you’re sure picky about how this song comes across,” Bofur said, looking incredibly pleased with himself. 

“I should think so, I wrote it,” Bilbo said with a huff. 

“Ooh, you hear that, we’ve got a composer in our midst,” Bofur crowed. 

“No-- Bofur, shush,” Bilbo said, clapping a hand over his friend’s mouth. Something warm, wet and slimy pressed itself flush against his palm and he shrieked, pulling back, shaking his hand off. “You are such a menace,” Bilbo whined, wiping the slobber off on Bofur’s jacket, then pointing an accusatory finger at his friend. 

“The best looking menace around,” Bofur said with a cheeky grin.

“Uh huh,” Bilbo said, eyeing Bofur’s hat skeptically. Bofur pouted.

“Keep up, the both of you,” Thorin yelled from a surprisingly long distance away. Bilbo and Bofur caught each others’ eyes, eyebrows raised, then burst into conspiratorial giggles. They picked up their pace then, speaking more quietly.

“Looks like somebody’s unhappy,” Bilbo muttered, as close to Bofur’s ear as he could without getting hit by the overlarge wings on his hat. “Quite the surprise, that is,” he said. Their laughter died as they approached the group, but Bofur was not through with his conquest.

“Oh come on, Bilbo, teach me that little ditty, won’t you? I promise I’ll sing the right words and everything.” Bofur put his hand over his heart.

“Fine, but only if you keep quiet about it,” Bilbo said. 

“I swear it,” Bofur said solemnly. 

“Alright,” Bilbo said, clearing his throat importantly. “There is an inn, a merry old inn

beneath an old grey hill--”

“What was that? Speak up, lad,” Bofur said. Bilbo squinted at him, sure that Bofur was intentionally trying to get a rise out of him. 

“And there they brew a beer so brown, that the Man in the Moon himself came down one night to drink his fill--”

“Sounds like he and I would get along,” Bofur interjected.

“Are you going to keep interrupting me, or are you going to let me finish?” 

The journey through the mountains was longer than Bilbo remembered. Before long, the lush green forest stopped abruptly. Balin’s gasp was heard by the whole Company. Where there had surely once been thousands of tall trees, there was nothing but scorched stumps and blackened branches. Bilbo was unsurprised to see this, as it was no different from Last Time, but the devastation left in the wake of what had surely been a deadly forest fire was quite shocking. 

“What happened?” asked Kíli, eyes wide. 

“Forest fire,” Óin said. He put a hand on one of the charred logs and stroked it absently with a calloused thumb. “Must have happened naught but a couple of years ago.” 

“How do you know?” Kíli asked. 

“Look at the underbrush,” Óin said. Bilbo followed Óin’s gaze. “If you look closely, the plants have started to grow back.” He was right in saying that. There was plenty of grass, wildflowers, and shrubbery, but none of it grew more than a couple of feet high. Mind you, this was quite tall enough for someone of Bilbo’s stature, however, he knew that before long, he would be wishing for the shelter that the trees would have offered.

“Aye, I see that,” Kíli said. “Most of it doesn’t look very old. This has all grown fresh since the fire?” 

“That’s right, lad,” Óin said with a smile. Bilbo heard a scoff, and looked just in time to see Fíli roll his eyes and turn away. His stomach sank. The boys had not yet reconciled, and Bilbo felt guilt gnaw away at him as Kíli got closer with Ori and Fíli looked on enviously. Luckily, Fíli did not seem to blame Bilbo for the rift between the brothers, and had even spoken to him amicably several times, but Kíli and Ori had taken to walking with him constantly. Bilbo had eventually decided to just keep his head down and hope for things to sort themselves out before Thorin thought it necessary to intervene.

“That’s rather sad, don’t you think?” asked Ori.

“That’s life, boy,” Nori said, cuffing Ori on the shoulder. Ori rolled his eyes, shifting away from his brother’s touch.

“Right, enough of this,” Bofur said, sauntering over. Bilbo groaned. He knew where this was going. Bofur had taken to teaching Bilbo’s song to the whole Company, and when he was bored, he would start an impromptu performance of it, calling on individual members of the Company until someone either messed up, or refused to sing. Despite his promises, Bofur had changed some words in the song, and Bilbo was loath to admit that Bofur’s version was actually more catchy, but alas! “There’s an inn, there’s an inn, there’s a merry old inn-- Nori!” 

Nori snuck up behind Bilbo and threw an arm playfully around Bofur’s shoulders. “Beneath an old grey hill--” 

“Very good, Nori,” Bofur cried. “Glóin!” Glóin puffed up, then sang as loud as he possibly could, in a deep, smooth bass.

“And there they brew a beer so brown the Man in the Moon himself came down one night to drink his fill!” Glóin’s voice was loud and deep, with a vibrato that seemed to send ripples through the tall grass.

“Yes!” Bofur said, pumping his fist, singing the next few lines himself. “Oh, the ostler has a tipsy cat that plays a five string fiddle-- Ori!”

“And up and down he saws his bow now squeaking high,” Ori’s voice cracked ever so slightly on the high note. “Now purring low.” The dwarves all had a good chuckle, for Ori was so animated, yet so awkward. One couldn’t help but smile watching the young dwarf sing. 

“Now sawing in the middle,” Bofur said, cutting in. “Óin!”

“So, the cat in the middle played hey fiddle-diddle, a jig that’ll wake the dead,” Óin sang, getting some of the words wrong, but making up for it in enthusiasm, clutching his ear horn tight to his ear with a crooked grin. 

“Close enough! Thorin!” Bofur yelled, pointing at their leader, who stared at Bofur impassively, expression unmoving except for an ever so slight downward curl of the lip and downturned eyebrows. Several heads turned to Bofur, unsure of what to do now that the king had refused to sing. Bofur, on the other hand, was absolutely unshaken. He nodded his head to imaginary words, then took off his hat and bowed to their leader, acting impressed, as though Thorin had swept them all away with his rendition, when in reality, he had stayed stubbornly quiet, then turned away from the group, looking ahead with a grimace.

“Fantastic! Together!” Bofur yelled, waving his hands around in a wild impression of a conductor.

“‘It’s after three!’ he said!” They all (or rather, most of them) sang together, hollering, their laughter echoing throughout the dips and crests of the mountains lying before them. 

  
  


The energy only waned after that. Very soon, even Bofur no longer had the drive to sing. It was nearing the end of June, and the mountain no longer offered any shelter from the blistering heat of the sun. The entire day had been spent crossing over a rock slide from decades previous. An entire face of the mountain had just crumbled away, and there were leagues of fallen stone, some worn down to pebbles, some that required them to clamber over each other to reach the top. It was exhausting work that Bilbo remembered well, although not well enough to prepare himself for it. He was reminded not only of how little muscle he had in his arms, but also of the fact that hobbit feet were not actually made for journeys such as this.

While his feet were nimble and resilient, hobbits didn’t often trek through treacherous mountain terrain. He had stubbed his toes, smashed his feet into jagged rocks, gotten slivers of sharp stone, and to top it off, the rocks seemed to trap the sun’s heat and shoot it directly into the soles of his feet. By the time they stopped for the night, he was exhausted, grumpy, and could barely even wait to finish dinner before he laid in bed. Where the days were hot and sunny, the nights were freezing. This truly was one of the worst parts of their journey, both times. It was enough for Bilbo to want to give up, a feeling he thought he had left behind in the “Last Time”. 

“How’re you holding up, laddie?” Óin asked, sidling up to the exhausted hobbit. Bilbo wanted desperately to be left alone, but managed to keep the dry sob that was threatening to come out at bay.

“I’m fine,” Bilbo grumbled. Óin frowned and adjusted his ear horn.

“You’re dying?” he asked, bushy brows furrowed. He looked the hobbit up and down. “What happened?”

“No, I’m--” Bilbo started, then reached over and adjusted Óin’s ear horn for him. “I’m fine, thank you, Master Óin.”

“Ah. That’s better.” Óin said, with a smile. “I can’t help but notice that your feet look to be paining you a great deal.”

“They’ll heal,” Bilbo said dismissively. 

“Lad, your feet are bare,” Óin said, prodding one of Bilbo’s toes, making him wince. “I don’t know much about hobbits, but they’re certainly not made of steel. Let me have a quick look at them, then I’ll leave you to rest.”

“Really, master Óin, it’s fine,” Bilbo said through gritted teeth. 

“I wasn’t asking,” Óin said. “Now lie back, there’s a good lad. I won’t be but a moment.”

“Well, alright then, thank you Master Óin.”

“Óin is just fine,” Óin said, looking intently at Bilbo’s feet. “My, these really are quite large.”

“Yes, well that didn’t exactly help me today,” said Bilbo, wincing as the healer bent his ankles this way and that. “More surface to injure, it would seem.”

“They’ve held up remarkably well,” said Óin. “I’ve always wondered why you don’t wear shoes, but I think I might begin to understand why.”

“We hobbits take great pride in our feet,” Bilbo said, wiggling his toes for emphasis. “You know, there were a few years, goodness, it must have twenty or thirty years ago now, where we actually had a judged competition for foot size. But then of course, it was decided that it was hardly a fair competition. You can’t help the way that you were born now, can you? That, and the Proudfoots always won. You can imagine that plenty of people were unhappy with that. My, I think it was Lobelia’s mother who put a stop to all that in the end. The apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree in some cases.” 

“Aye,” Óin said, pulling out various ointments and creams that he had made in preparation for the journey. “I’m going to slather some of this on. Might sting a wee bit, but after that, you get some rest and you’ll be just fine in no time.”

“Thank you, Óin, Bilbo said with a smile.

“Of course, lad,” said Óin, as though it was the only course of action that could have ever been. “Now, I want you to check in with me again every so often. And you tell me if it starts bugging you again.”

“I will,” said Bilbo.

“Now get some sleep,” Óin said, patting Bilbo’s shin delicately. Bilbo did sleep, and oddly enough, that night he had rather pleasant dreams about prizewinning tomatoes and flourishing gardens. The smell of home as it had been when his parents had been alive.

  
  


The road had spiked quite suddenly, several days later, and they found themselves treacherously high up, looking down on valleys and forests below. The road was dangerous and the weather unpredictable. Some days, the heat was unbearable, the bright summer sun beating down on them with nothing to protect their skin. The dark rocks seemed to drink the heat up greedily and it radiated from every surface. Bilbo’s poor feet, thick though they were, were blistered and sore from the hot ground, never truly healed from the damage done at the rock slide. The dwarves had no trouble sleeping in precarious passes, just metres away from a sheer drop off the mountain. Bilbo, however, lay sleepless night after night. It was not only the dizzying heights that kept his mind awake. His brain whirled with an aching want, a need to feel the ring’s cool weight in his hands. He felt feverish with desire, and tried desperately to crush these feelings, scared of the implications. This body had never felt the effects of the ring, but his mind remembered it all too well. It was confusing and painful and he wondered on multiple occasions if this was what Dragon Sickness felt like. 

It was with both a heavy heart, and a burning excitement that one hazy afternoon the weather took a turn for the worse, and they were suddenly drenched to the bone with rain. Thorin took the lead and they trudged on in the deluge for what felt like an eternity. Bilbo nearly jumped out of his skin as lightning struck, far too close for comfort. Thunder rolled violently just seconds after, and Bilbo was sure that the very mountain itself shook with it. They were pressed close against the mountain, rocks jabbing painfully into their backs, the pathway having become dangerously narrow. The wind whipped at them, pulling at their hair and clothes, making them stumble under the heavy weight of supplies and damp cloaks. Bilbo breathed deeply through his fear, making sure that his footing was secure. 

“We must find shelter!” Bilbo could only just make out Thorin’s voice from the front of the line. 

“Look out!” Dwalin’s voice was loud behind Bilbo, his eyes fixed in terror as a boulder was flung towards them. It shattered on the mountain above them, showering them with debris. Bilbo tried his best to cover his head with his arm.

“This is no thunderstorm! It’s a thunder-battle! Look!” Balin’s voice carried impressively, but was quickly drowned out as an enormous rock monster landed a punch on another. The resulting crack echoed, and this time, Bilbo was sure that the mountain shook. The mountain had come alive, giant craggy faces and jagged limbs, illuminated by the frequent flickers of lightning.

“Well bless me. The legends are true! Giants! Stone giants,” Bofur said in awe, clambering to the edge to watch.

“Keep moving,” Bilbo yelled, resisting the urge to push his friend on. Another crash echoed above them

“Take cover! you fool,” Thorin yelled at Bofur, as another boulder sent shards as big as Bilbo’s bedroom at Bag End flying all around them. Dwalin braced Bilbo and Ori against the mountain, as parts of the pathway broke away at their feet. Then, the ground started to shake and split apart, the mountain groaning with the effort of it. A crevice was growing rapidly, separating the group into two.

“Kíli! No!” Fíli’s voice held a heartbreaking desperation, any thoughts of their fight gone in an instant. “Grab my hand!” Kíli reached as far as he could, but even as he reached, the gaping hole between them widened. Kíli’s wide eyes stared at his brother, paralyzed with fear, unable to look away.

“Hold on,” Dwalin yelled, arms still covering Bilbo and Ori protectively as they soared through the air at an alarming speed. They were atop the knees of a Stone Giant. The world was a blur as they held on for dear life, blinking rain and dust from their eyes. Bilbo’s stomach felt detached, being thrown about listlessly inside him. For one confusing second, they whipped past the other half of the company, who had found their way back onto the path. All Bilbo saw was Thorin’s terrified expression before he felt himself hurtling towards the mountain. Bilbo prayed they would once again survive this fall, as the giant’s body crashed into the mountain. With a shuddering screech and a flurry of flying limbs and debris, Bilbo was launched harshly against a rock and felt a dizzying blow to his head as he bounced off, then skidded towards the abyss, fingers grasping desperately for a handhold. He caught the edge with his fingertips and clung to it, mind numbingly empty. He could not form words, could not call for help. 

“Where’s Bilbo? Where is he?” Bofur’s panicked voice carried over the edge. Bilbo’s arms were already shaking with the effort of supporting his weight, and he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping they would find him soon.

“Bilbo! Get him!” Thorin’s yell was pained, fearful. Bofur and Ori’s heads appeared above him and Bofur let out a choked yell. 

“Grab my hand! Bilbo! Come on, take it!” Bilbo tried his very hardest, but the rain was slippery on his hands and they slid listlessly off of Bofur’s.

“Move,” Thorin yelled, launching himself off the edge, keeping one arm gripped against the edge. He met Bilbo’s eyes, and Bilbo was shocked to see the panic there. He hoisted Bilbo up roughly and the hobbit scrambled up as best he could, with the help of Bofur and Ori. 

“Thorin,” Bilbo yelled, just as Thorin slipped. For a moment, Bilbo feared that Thorin would fall, be lost to oblivion, or that his yell would distract Dwalin, but Dwalin’s hand shot out and grabbed Thorin’s arm, hoisting him roughly up the side of the rock. Thorin brushed himself off angrily and stared Bilbo down.

“I thought we’d lost our burglar,” said Dwalin, after assuring that Thorin was alright. Was that relief Bilbo heard in the warrior’s voice?

“He’s been lost ever since he left home. We should have left him in Rivendell. At least he had a place among the elves.” Thorin’s glare was cutting, and Bilbo felt very small in that moment. “Dwalin, with me,” Thorin barked, turning towards the mouth of a dark cave. 

“Bilbo,” Kíli came up beside him and put his hands on the hobbit’s shoulders. He looked him over thoroughly. “Are you injured?”

“No, I’m fine,” he mumbled, not meeting his concerned eyes. Kíli’s face fell. 

“Don’t listen to Uncle. He was worried about you, is all.” 

“He’s right,” Fíli said, coming from behind and grabbing Kíli’s arm as though it were a lifeline. Clearly the brush with death was enough for the two to reconcile. Bilbo was glad one good thing came out of this.

“It’s safe,” Dwalin called, beckoning them all towards the cave. Bilbo found himself walking between the brothers.

“Did Kíli ever tell you of the time uncle took us hunting?” Fíli asked. Bilbo shook his head. “Well, Kíli thought it was a brilliant idea to try and cross a river on an old, slippery log. Naturally, being as clumsy as he is, he fell right in. And of course, I went after him. You can imagine Uncle’s panic when both of his nephews disappeared into a river,” Fíli said with a laugh. “He threw himself in after us.”

“Except it really wasn’t very deep,” Kíli said with a chuckle. “Fee and I could both touch the bottom.”

“And still, he dove in after us. But keep in mind that it was probably only up to his waist.”

“You should have seen his face when he came up,” Kíli said, eyes shining with mirth. “He was  _ so  _ angry. His hair was dripping all over his face. He looked a mess.” Kíli said, with a muffled laugh. Fíli grinned, ruffling his brother’s wet hair.

“Stop it,” Kíli whined, swatting Fíli’s hands away with an exasperated smile. Bilbo shook his head, a weight lifting off his chest at the sight. 

“But once he was sure we were both fine, he tore into us,” Fíli said grimly. “He told us we were fools that he was stupid to have trusted us to come along with him. And in his defense, he could have been seriously hurt diving in like that.” 

“That still seems rather harsh,” Bilbo said, trying to imagine a young Fíli and Kíli. “You were just children.”

“Uncle doesn’t like to show fear, so it manifests as anger,” Fíli said with an eye roll. 

“Right then, let’s get a fire started,” Gloin said loudly, interrupting their conversation.

“No. No fires. Not in this place. Get some sleep, we start at first light,’ Thorin said gruffly, starting to unpack his things.

“We were to wait in the mountains until Gandalf joined us. That was the plan,” Balin said anxiously.

“Plans change. Bofur, take the first watch.”

“Aye, that I’ll do,” Bofur said, tipping his hat and settling down on a rock. Everyone was quick to settle in for the night, likely exhausted and shaken from the last hour of pure chaos. Bilbo still had tremors running through his body, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the fear of the rock battle, or the evil that he knew the night would bring. Likely a combination of both, come to think of it. Bilbo made no attempt to sleep. He sat with his back against a rock and squeezed his eyes shut tightly, trying to shut out the noise of the storm, and the hum that had been growing louder since they had left Rivendell. It was the ring, Bilbo was sure of that much. He could almost sense the very location of the ring within the mountain and he shook his head violently, trying to rid himself of these obsessive thoughts. 

“Got water in your ear, do you?” Bofur was looking at Bilbo with fond amusement. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised, based on how wet it is out there,” Bilbo said with a forced laugh. Bofur pierced him with a knowing look.

“Okay, now what’s really bothering you?” he asked, lowering his voice. Bilbo considered telling him the truth. Well, part of it. He also considered lying again, telling Bofur that he was fine, nothing was the matter. He opened his mouth to speak, although still unsure of what he wanted to say, but nothing came out. Bofur gave him a sympathetic smile. “Don’t mind Thorin,” Bofur said. 

“What about Thorin?” Bilbo snapped defensively, eyes flickering nervously to the sleeping king.

“Woah, steady now, I mean no offense,” said Bofur, raising his hands in surrender. “Only that I know what you gave up to come with us. And I know it’s not been easy for you neither. I won’t ask why, but I do want you to know that if you ever need me to lend an ear, I’ve got two handy.” With that, Bofur lifted his hat and pulled at his ears animatedly. Bilbo wanted to laugh, but he simply couldn’t.

“Thank you, Bofur,” Bilbo said with an attempt at a smile, though he was sure he looked quite dismal.

“Of course, Bilbo. You’re one of us now,” Bofur said, putting a large hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo felt a jolt in his stomach and looked around him at his sleeping friends.

“You’re right,” he said with growing conviction. “I am, aren’t I?” Bilbo said, feeling slightly giddy. Bofur grinned, but then his eyeline changed, squinting.

“What’s that, laddie?” Bofur asked, eyes trained near Bilbo’s waist.

“Everyone wake up,” Bilbo yelled, ice flooding his veins, not needing to look at his sword to know that it was glowing blue. “Orcs!” 

“Get up!” Thorin roared, on his feet the second Bilbo opened his mouth. There was a flurry of activity as the dwarves scrambled with their bags. There was a hissing noise, as sand started falling through the cracks. 

“Brace yourselves,” Bilbo yelled, just before the cave floor dropped out from underneath them. 


	5. Mistakes Are Made and Games Are Played

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> Sorry it's been such a long time since my last update. I have settled into my new place but online university is kicking my ass. I will update as frequently as I can, but it will likely not be very often. Apologies in advance.
> 
> That being said, I am still super excited to be working on it, and have recently had some fun revelations about some of my more murky plot points. If you can bear with me and my infrequent postings, I will do my best to make it worth your time :)
> 
> Hope you are all well.

Bilbo’s stomach was in his throat as he fell along the harsh, rocky surface. Stones tore his heels apart, and he tried desperately to keep his head up and away from the jagged chute below him, holding in screams of pain as dirt sunk into his open wounds. Before he knew it, they landed hard in a rickety wooden cage, balanced precariously on the edge of an abyss. The very ground below them shook, an army of goblins coming towards them as they tried to get to their feet, elbows and feet flying every which way. Bilbo shrunk down as low as he could, knowing that stealth was his best option, or at least it had been Last Time. His ears filled with guttural cheers and jeers. The shrieks of the goblins were more horrible than Bilbo remembered and a jolt of fear shot down his spine as they rushed towards the Company. Hard, scaly skin and jagged nails brushed against him, snagged on his clothes, and he did his best to hide Sting from the greedy claws of the goblins. He was so small, and the goblins, so big, that they seemed to rush past him, more interested in the dangerous looking dwarves. He felt a shiver of anger as the goblins pinched, nabbed, and grabbed at his friends, prodding them forward along the makeshift walkway. They put up a good fight, but they were disoriented and surrounded. He knew there was nothing they could do. Selfishly, Bilbo needed this to happen so he could get to the ring. It had to happen the same way, or he risked it not happening at all.

Stomach in knots, Bilbo stayed low and quiet, trying desperately to remember how he had gotten down to Gollum’s cave Last Time. It had been such a blur, a rush of adrenaline and fear, that he couldn’t be quite sure how to proceed. A lone goblin jolted him out of his thoughts, launching itself at Bilbo with a twisted smile. Instinctively, Bilbo embedded Sting into its belly, a swift death. But he knew this goblin. Bilbo’s stomach sunk like a stone. The goblin now lying dead at his feet was supposed to have knocked him down, tumbled into the abyss with him. And now how was he to achieve that? Suddenly queasy, Bilbo approached the edge of the platform he was standing on, and looked out into the darkness at the sheer drop. How was he to get down there? A voice in his head told him to jump. To throw himself down towards the ring. His head swam, thoughts barraging him intrusively. _The ring. Jump. Jump!_

The sound of fighting, that had started to recede, started to make its way back to him, startling him. He fell away from the edge and turned around, only to see Bifur, fending off three goblins on his own. Looking between the chasm below him, and his outnumbered friend, Bilbo wondered what to do. Did he jump, go after what was so desperately calling to him, or did he help his friend? Had this happened last time? Would Bifur be fine if he did not help him, or was he risking the dwarf’s life with his hesitation? No, that simply wouldn’t do. With that thought, Bilbo hoisted Sting up above his head and charged. The fight was quick, and adrenaline mercifully took over. It took only moments for Bilbo to realize that they were nearing the edge again before he made his first mistake. It happened so quickly. He couldn’t exactly pinpoint what made him lose his balance. He couldn’t even be sure that it had truly been unintentional, but he slipped. Bifur’s hand shot out, reaching for the falling hobbit, and Bilbo took it. His second mistake. For one terrifying moment, Bilbo was weightless. And then he was consumed by darkness.

He landed on something solid. Groaning, he looked around him. To his shock, he had landed on Bifur. Bilbo scrambled off the dwarf, who instantly started struggling to get to his feet, like a beetle stuck upside down. 

“Bifur, what are you doing down here?” he hissed. Bifur grumbled something to Bilbo in Khuzdul, that Bilbo couldn’t understand, eyes frighteningly wide. Bifur finally managed to get to his feet, turning to look up the ravine they had fallen down. He staggered back, then, before Bilbo could even think what to say or do, Bifur launched himself at the rock wall, trying desperately to climb up it, yelling with such ferocity that Bilbo wanted to cover his ears.

“Bifur!” Bilbo cried, launching himself towards the dwarf, who was sure to either bloody up his hands, or make enough noise for the goblins to find them. “Bifur, shush! Stop, it’s too steep.” True to Bilbo’s warning, Bifur slid down the rock face, foot catching awkwardly on an outcropping of stone. With a sharp intake of breath, Bifur fell to the ground, clutching at his ankle with a wild look in his eyes.

Bifur’s face was twisted in pain and he muttered something angrily under his breath.

“Oh, Bifur, whatever are we going to do?” Bilbo asked, more to himself than to the other dwarf. Bifur shook his head, eyes screwed shut. He then scrambled to his feet, using the wall to prop himself up. 

“Be careful,” Bilbo hissed, rushing to Bifur’s side to offer his support. “We need to find a way out of here. There must be a tunnel that leads out,” he said, mind racing. How was he to find the ring and confront Gollum if Bifur was there, watching his every move? Bifur grabbed ahold of Bilbo’s shoulder, releasing the wall to point down one of the tunnels, a frantic look in his eye as he muttered in khuzdul, far too quick for Bilbo to even attempt to pick out the couple of words he knew. 

“Alright, alright, slow down,” he said as Bifur started tugging towards the tunnel to the right. “We must be smart about this.” He paused to think. He tried desperately to remember which way would lead him to Gollum’s cave, and which way would take them out of the mountain, if either would at all. He chewed on his lip nervously as Bifur watched in tense silence, still inching towards the right tunnel. For the life of him, Bilbo could not remember where to go. “Right, Bifur, you go down the tunnel to the right, and I’ll go left. Go as far as you can. Surely one of these will take us out of here. If you find the way, turn around. We’ll meet back here.”

Bifur let out a string of words, certainly in disapproval, but Bilbo shook his head.

“There’s no time. We have to find the others,” he said. “And stay alert. There’s no way of knowing what might lurk down here,” he added, thinking of Gollum, and wondering, not for the first time, if it was truly wise to split up. To leave an already injured Bifur alone. But it was a risk he had to take. As Elrond had expressed, the fate of the world was at stake. 

“Go, go,” Bilbo said, shooing a disgruntled Bifur away. 

Bilbo paused, waiting for Bifur’s unsteady footfalls to recede, then swore, spinning on the spot. He had truly been a fool to assume that everything would happen exactly the same, when most things in life were complete chance. Of course he had let it go awry. 

Alright, he had to think. How would he find the ring without knowing where he had initially found it? And on top of that, where was Gollum? There was no way he could predict the creature’s actions without the goblin that had fallen down with Bilbo Last Time. 

After several minutes of tense silence, Bilbo decided that the only thing he could do for now, was move forward and hope for the best. He edged his way along the dark tunnels slowly, feeling the surface of the ground with his feet, hoping they might come across the cool metal ring that, for some reason, seemed to have fallen silent in his mind. _How very helpful._ Bilbo kept Sting drawn and his ears peeled, unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched. He could barely see his own hands in the gloom. He felt so very small, and so powerless. What a foolish way this would be for him to die. 

After what felt like days, but could really have been just hours, he finally stumbled across a large underground space. He could feel the shape of the room change in the way that his own breath and shuffling steps echoed back to him. He heard the drip of water, and smelled something mildewy and distinctly damp. He could not truly be sure that this was the cave in which he met Gollum Last Time, but he kept his back to the wall, sword in front of him protectively nevertheless. There was a whisper, a ripple, something so quiet that he couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t imagined it. But no! There it was again, he was sure of it this time. And then unmistakably, he heard the rattle of breath, the quietest of footfalls. And then large, pale eyes in the gloom, peering at him hungrily.

“What is it, precious?” Gollum’s whisper echoed eerily around him, but the eyes had disappeared. Bilbo swung his sword around him in a half circle, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice. “It’s not a goblins, no, but it’s not a nasty little dwarfs either,” said Gollum, eyes reappearing to Bilbo’s right. Bilbo felt a chill run up his spine. Gollum hadn’t gotten to Bifur, had he? 

“What- what about dwarves?” Bilbo asked, heart thrumming. Gollum hissed, then approached Bilbo, walking on all fours. 

“Or maybe it is a dwarfs,” Gollum whispered, reaching a pale, long-fingered hand towards the hobbit. “We’d have to taste it to know, wouldn’t we?”

“You won’t be tasting anything,” said Bilbo, hitting Gollum’s hand away with the flat of his blade. Gollum fell as though burned, letting out an agonized, gulping shriek. 

“It burns us, precious, burns!” Gollum said, cradling himself on the ground. Unbidden satisfaction rose up inside him as he thought of Frodo’s mangled hand, of the stories he’d been told of his nephew’s time in Mordor with this faithless rat. _I should kill him_ , Bilbo thought. No, no he couldn’t kill him. He needed to find the ring, and Gollum was his only lead.

“I- I need to get out of the mountain,” Bilbo said, voice cracking nervously. He was not sure that leaving the mountain was his best bet, but, he decided, if he were to choose between splitting up from the Company, potentially never seeing them again, and not finding the ring, he knew where his choice would lie, despite hoping he wouldn’t have to make it. He kept his eyes fixed on Gollum, an angry knot of anxiety churning in his stomach, forcing his breaths to be shallow and short. “I know you know the way.”

“Do you hear that, precious? It’s lost,” Gollum said, picking himself up and peering at Bilbo with barely concealed sinister glee. He then gasped, expression changing. “We knows! We knows safe paths in the dark!” Gollum said, then shuddered, hunching in on himself again with a grimace. “Shut up!” 

“I haven’t said anything,” Bilbo said instinctively, then winced, feeling like a fool to have fallen for that twice now.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Gollum said with a sneer. His demeanour switched quickly with a shrug. “Well, yes we..we was precious, we was.”

“I don’t know what your game is, but I’m- I’m not lost,” said Bilbo, trying to keep the tremor from making Sting shake in his hand. 

“Games?” Gollum said with an eerily wide smile. Bilbo held a finger up to shush the creature.

“As I said, I’m not lost. I’ve simply forgotten the way. If you know it, I would be grateful if you could show me.”

“Show it?” Gollum said, hunched in on himself, smile disappearing like a snuffed candle. “Show it the way? Well we could, precious, we could…”

“You like games, do you?” Bilbo asked, lowering his blade and ignoring Gollum’s snarls. “How about we have a game?” Bilbo asked, attempting to sound natural.

“Games?! Oh, we love games, doesn’t we, precious? Does it like games? Does it, does it? Does it like to play?” Gollum asked, leaping around with excitement. Bilbo’s stomach clenched as he recognized the familiar words. He was putting things back on track, he had to be.

“Yes,” Bilbo said, keeping on guard. “I want to play. I do. I’m certain you must be very good at this. So let’s have a game of riddles? Just you and me.”

“Yes,” said Gollum, eyes wide. “Just...just... just us.”

“Yes,” Bilbo coaxed. “And if I win, you’ll show me the way out.” Bilbo said. Gollum’s breath hitched, then he turned away and started muttering to himself.

“And if we win?” Gollum asked, pointing to himself, then at Bilbo. “And if it loses, what then?” Bilbo could tell that Gollum was not asking Bilbo, but rather himself. “Well, if it loses, precious, then we eats it!”

“If- if you win, you have my permission to eat me,” Bilbo said with a shudder, not feeling bad at all about his lie, but rather concerned that he might soon have to act on it. “You first.” Bilbo watched Gollum fall silent, eyes nearly rolling back into his head as he thought. Bilbo tensed, wondering if Gollum’s riddles would stay the same, or change. Would he be able to answer them? What would happen if he couldn't?

_What has roots as nobody sees,_

_Is taller than trees_

_Up, up, up it goes,_

_And yet never grows?_

Relieved, Bilbo pretended to think for a moment. “The mountain,” he said finally, relishing in Gollum’s disappointed snarl. 

“Very good, very good,” Gollum muttered. “Your turn,” he said, eyes fixed unblinking on Bilbo.

_Bent easily like the will of kings,_

_For this they lust above all things_

_Its bitter hold runs deep in veins,_

_He who loses thinks he gains._

_A rich man this takes,_

_A monster it makes._

Bilbo made up wildly, not even sure if this made sense. Last Time, Bilbo had drawn from his extensive knowledge of riddles from his father, but for some reason, his brain seemed to have a different plan for him this time around. Gollum screwed up his face, whispering furiously at himself. Time stretched longer and longer and Bilbo wondered if it really could be this easy.

“Is it gold, precious?” Gollum asked himself. Bilbo sighed. “Gold, it must be. Gold!”

“Yes, yes, it’s gold,” Bilbo said, nerves swelling again at Gollum’s pleased expression.

“Our turn now, isn’t it?” asked Gollum, voice low and rumbly, like the underused purr of an ill cat.

_Voiceless it cries,_

_Wingless flutters,_

_Toothless bites,_

_Mouthless mutters._

“Wind,” Bilbo said, hardly even pretending to think anymore. Gollum let out an angry yell that tapered off into a gargle. “The answer is wind.” Bilbo tightened his fist around Sting as Gollum started pacing on all fours.

“It’s very clever, precious, very clever,” Gollum said, grimacing. “Nasty little thing.”

“Alright,” Bilbo said, eyes straining to keep Gollum in his sight through the darkness. “It’s my turn.” 

_Black where there once was colour_

_Alone where there once was another_

_A life, a friend,_

_A beginning and end_

_A sunshine paled,_

_A wound thinly veiled_

_Cursed to see in shades of grey,_

_Until the last and final day._

“Well?” Bilbo asked, as Gollum started to get agitated. He let out a whine, grabbing a rock and grinding it into the ground, filling the cavern with a nasty, gritty wail. He then brought both hands up to his face, pulling grotesquely at his pale skin with a dry sob.

“Give us time,” Gollum said, turning his back on Bilbo and hunching in on himself, whispering furiously. He fell silent suddenly, turning around with a disturbing smile. “We know what this is,” he said. “We’ve made them, haven’t we, precious.”

“Then what is it?” asked Bilbo.

“Widowses,” said Gollum, eyes wide, lost to memory. Bilbo sighed. 

“Right you are again.” 

_Ever it shrinks_

_And sinks_

_And bends_

_It whispers and roars,_

_And weightless soars_

_Its icy grip both foe and friend._

Bilbo had never heard this one. It was new and unfamiliar, and he did not like not knowing the answer, being blindsided by Gollum of all things. But what could it be? Gollum watched on silently, predatory grin growing at a distracting speed. What was the answer? Silence stretched on and Gollum started to stalk forward. 

“It looks tasty, doesn’t it, precious? Plump and juicy!” Gollum hissed. And suddenly, Bilbo knew the answer. 

“No no, wait,” he said. “The answer is a-a river!” True enough, Bilbo could vividly remember his first and only trip down a river leaving the dungeons of the Elvenking, and he was quite, if not totally sure of his answer.

“Nasty,” Gollum said with a sob, pointing an accusatory finger at Bilbo.

“Ah, ah,” Bilbo said, shaking his finger at Gollum, feeling rather pleased with himself. “I think it’s my turn now.” And it was. He had a wicked idea. A perfectly wicked plan. 

_Four hands became two hands,_

_Two hands took the One_

_Silent and shadowless,_

_Long years without sun_

_Sightless pools where darkness cools,_

_Witless it duels and curses and fools._

Gollum’s eyes widened almost comically, a flicker of recognition in them. Then he shook his head. 

“Give us a moment,” Gollum hissed, baring his few teeth. As time passed, Bilbo started to feel quite pleased with himself. Gollum’s breathing was growing more and more erratic. “It can’t. It can’t be precious,” he whined. “But it must,” he said, voice changing to a snarl. “But how does it know? Yes, how does it know?”

“Know- know what?” Bilbo asked.

“It’s us, precious,” Gollum said. “It must be us.” 

“I- you’re right,” he said, face falling.

“Witless, it calls us,” Gollum whispered, then laughed to himself, peering at Bilbo with an expression of absolute loathing. “We’ll show it witless.”

  
  


_Walking on legs not its own,_

_Years it’s lived,_

_Yet never grown_

_Thought without brain,_

_Mind’s dark stain_

_Ageless it waits,_

_Wordless hates._

  
  


Gollum’s whispers filled the cave, as he slunk around Bilbo, a sly smirk lighting his face up. Bilbo’s mind raced. He cursed aloud as nerves got the better of him. His cold fingers shook, and he had the uncomfortable feeling of chasing after a thought, only for it to disappear, always out of reach. He could hardly even remember the riddle at this point. Why hadn’t he been more prepared for this? If only he had the ring, he could slip away undetected, and leave this sorry business behind. But he hadn’t found it, and he didn’t know how he would find it, if he even would, or why he hadn’t. He couldn’t leave even if he wanted to. He needed to find the ring. He had to find it. Find the ring. The ring.

“The ring,” Bilbo muttered aloud. Gollum fell silent and Bilbo froze, senses suddenly alert. He had made a horrible, horrible mistake. 

“How can it know?” Gollum asked, glaring up at Bilbo murderously. He started shaking, then lunged at Bilbo, hands outstretched. Bilbo scrambled away, clumsy in the darkness, Gollum’s shrieks following him. “How does it know?!” Gollum let out a roar, and Bilbo felt something whip past him, then heard a rock smash into the wall behind him. He turned around just in time for Gollum to lunge forward, and he brought Sting out, waving the blade around in a panic. Gollum hissed at the sight, then slowed. 

“Nasty little thing knows about the precious,” Gollum whispered with a grotesque smile. “We can’t let it leave now, can we?”

To Bilbo’s horror, Gollum reached into a hidden pocket in his loincloth. _He has the ring._ Bilbo realized with a shock so severe that he almost fell over, that he was going to die here, how could he not? He waited for Gollum to disappear. Imagined what it would feel like for the creature to wrap his clammy hands around his throat, or sink his teeth into Bilbo’s flesh.

Only something very unexpected happened. Gollum did not disappear. Instead, he froze, watery eyes swivelling towards Bilbo with a chilling expression. 

“He… stole it from us,” Gollum whispered, inching towards Bilbo carefully, like an animal stalking its prey. Bilbo, gaining his wits rather slowly, stumbled backwards as Gollum launched himself towards the hobbit with a blood-curdling yell.

The wind was knocked out of Bilbo as Gollum slammed into his body, sending him flying back, splashing into the pool. He hit the ground hard, head smacking into the rock beneath him. He inhaled sharply at the pain, and felt his lungs filling with freezing liquid. He fought to bring his head above water and suck in a gulp of air. His mind didn’t even register the icy water, but for the fact that the ground fell away quickly. His legs were on land, but his head was in open water. Disoriented and shocked, he tried to turn, flip himself over or get up, anything to get away from black depths of the pool, but Gollum was quicker. He straddled Bilbo’s waist, and Bilbo felt clammy hands enclose around his neck. A shock went through his body, and Gollum took that moment to plunge Bilbo’s head underwater. Bilbo’s nose and lungs were burning like he had inhaled acid. His hands came to grapple with those around his neck, but Gollum was strong. The creature’s cackles were distorted underwater, dark and grotesque. Evil. 

Gollum’s twisted grin loomed over Bilbo, almost glowing in the darkness, and he wondered if it was the last face would ever see. He should be able to fight, to save himself but his head was spinning, his lungs protesting. The only thing that seemed to be working properly was his heart, beating loud and fast, the throbbing sound seeming to take over his mind. He briefly wondered if this was one of his nightmares. If he would wake up whole and hale in some cave in the Misty Mountains. 

_Do something_ , his body screamed. He mustered the strength to lift his arms, to fight against Gollum’s tight grip, but his hands came back, weak and stiff. An idea striking him, he felt for Gollum’s pinky finger and, with both hands, pushed it backwards. He felt the bones crack in his grip, and suddenly he was free. He pushed Gollum away, scrambling onto all fours and gasping in air, desperate, head spinning, water burning his throat as he coughed it up. Gollum’s wails of pain quickly morphed into anger and he knew time was up. He had to run, could not stop to find the ring. Nothing would protect him from Gollum this time. He had to be ready to kill him. He was ready.

“Curse it, precious! Give it back!” Gollum’s scream ripped through his throat and he ran at Bilbo, who scrambled towards Sting, heart in his throat. “It’s ours!” 

Bilbo grabbed Sting and stumbled as quickly as he could through the tunnels, Gollum hot on his tail. He could not stop to think, to plan, he simply hoped to outrun the creature who had every advantage. It was a foolish endeavour, he knew, but some desperate, flickering flame inside him pushed on. 

Bilbo’s footsteps, normally so quiet and clever, seemed clumsy, slapping against the moist rock below him, sound ringing in his ears. Gollum was gaining on him, he knew it. The creature was fast, his footprints more of a slither as he galloped on all fours. Bilbo didn’t dare look behind him. He knew Gollum was close. He could hear his laboured breaths. A chill ran down Bilbo’s spine, feeling exposed and vulnerable

He swung around, skidding to a halt, to face Gollum, heart pounding loudly. 

“I’m warning you,” Bilbo said, raising Sting to point at Gollum with shaking hands. “Don’t come any closer.”

Gollum said nothing, glaring at Bilbo with a hate so severe that Bilbo once again wondered how he could possibly survive this. 

“Thiefs,” Gollum hissed, chest heaving. “Where has it hidden it?”

“S-stay back,” Bilbo said, inching backwards while keeping his sword pointed at Gollum. 

“Stay back,” Gollum repeated with a half-wail, half-sob. “It steals from us and wants us to stay back.”

“I haven’t stolen anything,” said Bilbo, bitter at his own honesty. 

“It’s lying, it must be.”

“I’m not,” Bilbo said breathlessly. “I promise you, I’m not. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Gollum looked confused, watery eyes swivelling between Bilbo and the tunnel behind him, body poised, ready to leap into action.

“But how did it know?” Gollum said, confusion colouring his voice. “The precious is gone and it knew.” He looked at Biblo, naked brow bones curving into a frown.

“No, I didn’t,” Bilbo said. Gollum twitched, leaning forward ever so slightly. Bilbo raised Sting a moment too late. For the second time that day, the air was knocked out of Bilbo’s lungs as Gollum slammed into him. Sting was flung from his grasp and landed just out of his reach. Gollum’s hands were hard against Bilbo’s throat. Merciless and strong, unhindered by his broken finger. Bilbo did not even bother trying to remove Gollum’s hands, instead inching his fingers towards his blade. Panic swelled in his chest, and his deprived lungs didn’t seem to know whether they wanted to expand, or shrink in on themselves until they were shrivelled and dead. His fingers were so close. Black spots started dancing in his eyes and he was overtaken by sheer terror, everything in his mind screaming at him. A jolt ran through his arm at an odd sensation in his fingertips. _Sting._

The sound of the hilt of his blade colliding with this side of Gollum’s head was drowned out by his own breath. Each gasp rattled in his chest and his pulse pounded like an earthquake. He laid there for several moments, hardly even able to hope that Gollum would not wake up, his own physical needs taking over all mental capacity. When he could finally think about controlling his body, he slowly got to his feet, supporting himself against the wall of the cave as his limbs were weak and shaky.

Gollum had not moved but his chest was still rising and falling. Bilbo picked Sting up and walked towards Gollum as careful as he could be, and stared down at the unconscious creature. Bilbo would kill him. He had to. He didn’t deserve to live. How could he leave him alive? How could Bilbo ever assure that Gollum wouldn’t come after him? That he wouldn’t send evil right towards his nephew. Bilbo wouldn’t be there to warn him or protect him. But then, he hadn’t told Gollum his name, or even what he was. There was no way the creature would ever be able to find him. Especially once the eagles took them to their eyrie.

No, Gollum was evil and he deserved to die. Bilbo poised Sting at the creature’s throat. Clenching his jaw he drew back… and stopped a breath away from Gollum’s neck. 

“You coward, Bilbo Baggins,” he said under his breath. He watched Gollum for another moment, then nodded. He sheathed his sword and walked away, wondering all the while if he was making a terrible mistake.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Five, six, seven, eight. Bombur, Bofur, that’s ten. Fíli, Kíli, that’s twelve. And Bifur, good, there you are. That makes thirteen.” He paused. “Where’s Bilbo?” Gandalf said under his breath as Bifur hobbled painfully into the clearing. “Where is our hobbit? Where is our hobbit?!” his voice raised to a yell as he spun around in a circle. Thorin’s stomach dropped, and he too spun around, sure he would see a messy head of copper ringlets among the Company.

“Curse that Halfling! Now he’s lost! I thought he was with Dori!” Glóin said. Thorin whipped around to look at Glóin, whose brow furrowed, face blotchy and red from the run.

“Don’t blame me, I haven’t seen him since last night,” Dori said. His voice was defensive, as it so often was, but he was frowning, eyes fixed on the mountain behind them.

Bifur stepped forward, expression shameful. He explained that the two of them had fallen deep down into the caves, and Bifur had agreed to split up to find an exit. It was there that he had stumbled upon the rest of the Company mostly by chance, leaving Bilbo behind in the caves. 

**“** Where did this happen exactly? Tell me!” Gandalf boomed. Bifur sniffed wetly and clapped his hands over his ears. Thorin clenched his icy fingers into fists imagining the hobbit wandering through the tunnels all by himself. Small and defenseless. This was Thorin’s fault. He was the leader, and he should have been looking after everyone in the company. He had not even noticed that Bifur had been missing in their panicked escape. He resisted the urge to hang his head in shame, and instead gritted his teeth. No, it had been Bilbo’s idea to split up. It had been him that had gone off alone.

“I’ll tell you what happened,” said Thorin, an inexplicable and all-consuming rage coming to a sudden boil in his stomach. “Master Baggins saw his chance and he took it! He’s likely gone back to Rivendell. We all saw how comfortable he was there. We will not be seeing our hobbit again, he is long gone back to the elves.” Thorin ignored the glare sent his way by the wizard. Of course Bilbo had gone back to the elves. He had to have. 

“And how do you suppose he got past the goblins?” Gandalf asked with a disdainful expression. “We must go back for him. I will not leave him there.”

“We may not have a choice,” said Dwalin. Thorin spun around as the howls of wargs in the distance grew. His blood froze.

“Run!” Thorin yelled. He did not wait to see if Gandalf followed him, but kept his eyes on the company, kept his focus on the ground ahead of him and the rhythm of his feet. The wargs were bearing down on them far too quickly, tearing across the pine needle-strewn ground with muscled legs. The orcs knew what they were doing. They had driven the Company to the edge of a cliff. Thorin slowed his pace, eyes scanning furiously for anything to do. Any way to escape.

“We must climb,” came the voice of the wizard, who was hoisting himself up with surprising agility into the underlying branches of one of the large trees. 

“Climb,” Thorin reiterated, managing to pull himself up into a low branch, but keeping his eyes on his comrades, making sure they all made it into the trees. Once he was sure they were all safely in the branches, Thorin climbed higher, tingles running up his spine as the wargs burst into the clearing below them, snarling up at the figures in the trees, gnashing their sharp teeth menacingly. As soon as the cacophony started, it stopped, and the beasts slowed, turning to face a new presence. Thorin felt a wave of shock hit him, strong enough for him to sway on his branch.

“It cannot be,” Thorin said, mind dangerously empty, unable to think of anything but the Pale Orc who had just strode into the clearing atop a large white warg. Azog pointed at Thorin with a gnarled smile and spoke, his voice carrying over the snarling wargs. A command, the beasts lunged at the branches again, with deadly force. Thorin climbed higher as wargs ripped the lowest hanging limbs easily. His stomach was in knots as the world swayed, tree starting to fall under the paws of the warg pack.

“We need to jump,” Thorin yelled, hoping the others would hear him. He gathered his strength and launched himself at the closest tree in front of him. They could not stop there, however. As each tree fell, the next one followed. It was all Thorin could do to jump from tree to tree, landing hard among thin branches, and hope that they would not break. The breath rattled in his chest and his hands scrabbled against the rough bark. Pine needles whipped against his face but he barely noticed. Finally, there was nowhere else to flee. There was one tree left standing, growing precariously at the edge of the cliff. They were at a dizzying height, all thirteen dwarves and the wizard in one flimsy tree, their lives literally hanging in the balance. 

Thorin heard Gandalf calling orders, saw the flicker of lights out of the corners of his eyes, but he could not tear them away from his enemy. Now that they had stopped, he was transfixed. He didn’t dare look at his nephews, or Balin, his own failure stinging his eyes just as much as the smoke that started billowing up. The air was filled with angry yells and the yelps of wargs as their coats caught on fire. The flames grew, catching on the trees they had felled just moments before. The air was thick with smoke and heat and the smell of singed fur. As the flames grew higher, many of the wargs retreated, and the dwarves cheered. Their victory did not last long, as the tree they were in gave a sudden lurch. They were sinking over the edge of the abyss. Around him, Thorin heard the desperate sounds of his Company struggling to stay atop the branches, the fire roaring, and the branches cracking all around him. He saw his nephews, expressions desperate, drenched in sweat and dirt. 

He had failed them. Failed them all. He had fooled himself into thinking he might right the wrongs of his grandfather, right his own wrongs. And they had all trusted him. He cursed himself for forsaking their home in the Blue Mountains, for dragging his friends away from that safety, and for dragging them here to their deaths.

Azog was watching, his teeth bared into a satisfied smile. He would watch Thorin fall to his death. He had promised to wipe out the line of Durin, and he would watch it happen without having to lift a finger. He was disgusting. Lazy. 

No, Thorin would not let Azog win so easily. Not like this. If they were going to die, he would take the bastard with him. He would not have his last and final act be acceptance. He would fight to his death, and take as many orcs with him as he could.

He saw his chance. He pulled himself atop the fallen tree, and walked along it, staring Azog down. He sent a quick prayer to Mahal that somehow his nephews would be spared as he walked into the flames.

“Thorin, no!” Dwalin cried, desperately trying to pull himself up at Thorin’s feet. Thorin ignored him, not wanting to see his oldest friend’s face, and stalked towards the orc. Azog stared at Thorin atop his warg with a twisted smirk. Adrenaline surged through him as Azog’s beast prepared to lunge. But then something very strange happened. Several wargs lurched forwards towards an enemy that Thorin could not see, until Bilbo Baggins’s head became visible behind Azog, face twisted in rage. Before Thorin could process what he was seeing, Bilbo jabbed his little blade into the warg’s thigh, and it toppled down with a pained snarl. Azog fell from his beast, landing hard on the ground in front of the rock he had been perched on. There was a moment of confused silence, then Bilbo yanked his blade out of the warg’s leg and stabbed it viciously into its skull. It was then that all hell broke loose. Thorin ran at Azog, all thoughts leaving his mind as their weapons met.

Azog was strong but rigid, and Thorin used this to his advantage, leaping just out of reach of the Pale Orc at every opportunity. He fought hard. His muscles burned with each hit, already exhausted from fighting his way out of the goblin tunnels. He tried his best to stay one step ahead, but Azog was stronger, bigger. He knocked Thorin to the ground, and Thorin only just managed to block the strike with his shield.

“Thorin!” Bilbo’s voice was muffled, but that did not hide the panic. For the second time that day, Bilbo charged to Thorin’s defense, coming at Azog from behind. The orc pretended not to notice Bilbo’s attack, but the smirk on his face said otherwise.

“Bilbo, no,” Thorin grunted. Too late. At the last second, Azog spun around, hitting the hobbit’s shoulder with his wicked looking mace. Bilbo cried out, falling to the ground, body limp. Satisfied, the Pale Orc turned back to Thorin, growling in his dark language. Thorin dragged himself to his feet with a cry. He would make Azog pay. 

But he was too late. Large, scaly claws wrapped around Thorin’s waist, pulling him weightless into the sky. Below him, Azog glared up into the now eagle-filled night sky, Bilbo’s body lying near his feet. Lifeless. What had he done?

* * *

“He was already in a bad way before this.” There was a hand on Bilbo’s face, and voices whispering, surrounding him in a fuzzy hush. His eyes fluttered open to see Óin and Gandalf crouched over him, expressions grave.

“Well, what happened to him?” Gandalf was looking at a spot behind Bilbo, talking to someone out of his eyesight. He tried to sit up but hissed in pain as his chest protested. He looked down at his shoulder where it had been hastily bandaged. Blood was already seeping through the fabric, staining it a dark brown. He looked away quickly, stomach giving an uncomfortable lurch at the sight. The movement of his head was painful, his neck feeling tight and bruised.

“Don’t sit up, lad,” Óin said, putting a gentle hand on his bandage free shoulder. Bilbo groaned loudly, trying to sort out all the conflicting events and people in his head. His body ached and each breath hurt. He tried to swallow and winced at the sharp pain in his throat.

“I’m fine,” Bilbo said with a feeble cough. “Wha- Thorin. Is he ok?” Despite Óin’s protests, he staggered to his feet painfully, grabbing onto Gandalf’s arm to steady himself as he swayed dangerously. They were atop the Carrock. The sun was rising quite brilliantly in the sky around them. Bilbo’s fingers flew to his pocket, only to find it empty of the ring. Of course. They were so far away from the Misty Mountains now. Bilbo could not help the instant fog of defeat and hopelessness that washed over him at the thought of the ring lying abandoned in the caves. He barely even noticed the enormous eagle watching him with sharp golden eyes.

“Thorin is fine,” Óin said. “Too stubborn for his own good, but his injuries are minor. They will heal over time.” The healer was clearly unhappy, but gestured to the other side of the Carrock. Thorin was sitting rigidly between Fíli and Kíli, expression tense. Despite the fact that they had all made it out alive, Bilbo felt an overwhelming, debilitating failure. Kíli’s eyes found Bilbo and his face lit up in a brilliant smile. He elbowed his uncle and said something quietly to him. Thorin got to his feet and stalked towards Bilbo, who could not help his sudden urge to throw up. He had not dared expect another happy reconciliation atop this rock, and somehow the expression on Thorin’s face did not give him much hope of one. 

“You! What were you doing? You could have gotten yourself killed! Did I not say that you would be a burden? That you would not survive in the wild, and you had no place amongst us?” Thorin’s voice bit into Bilbo’s already fragile soul, eating away at what little joy he had felt upon seeing them all alive. “That your place was with the elves, rather than us?”

“I’m sorry you still feel that way, Master Oakenshield,” Bilbo said stiffly, desperately pushing down the sadness and loss that threatened to overcome him.

“No, Bilbo,” Thorin said, face breaking out into a brilliant smile that seemed to forge Bilbo to the spot, all other thoughts leaving his mind. “I have never been so wrong in all my life.” Thorin pulled the hobbit into his arms. It hurt like hell, if Bilbo was honest. His ribs protested, and his shoulder screamed, struggling to find air with his face against Thorin’s chest, but he wouldn’t change a thing. As he stood there, in Thorin’s arms, he felt a feeling that had laid dormant for the larger part of a century. He didn’t quite know what it was, but he felt safe and whole and happy, even. All of his worries and woes put ever so temporarily on hold. Thorin’s scent was familiar. The smell of campfire and bitter tobacco, something earthy and distinctly Thorin lingered in his furs and his hair. “Are you alright?” Thorin asked, very quietly in Bilbo’s ear, causing goosebumps to run down his neck.

“I will be,” Bilbo said simply, wishing desperately that it were true. Thorin pulled back, but kept his hands on Bilbo’s forearms, steadying Bilbo as much as he seemed to be steadying himself. 

“I am sorry I doubted you,” Thorin said. Bilbo could see remorse shining back at him through the dwarf's eyes, and his stomach gave a pleasant lurch. He held the dwarf’s gaze, despite feeling the urgent need to look away. 

“I would have doubted me also,” Bilbo said, honestly. And _I’m sorry I doubted you._ Thorin smiled softly at him and stepped away. Bilbo’s arms felt cold without Thorin’s hands on them.

“Look, Bilbo,” he said pointing off into the distance, eyes wide, vulnerable. 

“Erebor,” Bilbo whispered, glad that Thorin was not looking at him, and could not see the terror that shone on Bilbo’s face as everything rushed back to him. A chilling and terrible feeling overcame him and he swayed on the spot.

“Our home,” Thorin said, radiating warmth. And Bilbo tasted blood on his tongue as he bit back a sob.

  
  


“Gandalf, why is the eagle here?” Bilbo said quietly, hoping the said bird wouldn’t hear him and take offense. Gandalf raised an eyebrow, meeting Bilbo’s questioning gaze confidently.

“Well, my dear fellow, I wasn’t about to let you die on my watch.”

“I was hardly dying,” Bilbo said.

“You can hardly fault me for taking precautions. I don’t know exactly what, but I know enough to know that you play a part in something much larger. But if you’re sure that you are quite well, I shall send Meneldor away,” Gandalf said. Bilbo paused. 

“I don’t suppose Meneldor would be willing to go to Rivendell?” Bilbo asked with hesitance.

“Whatever for?” Gandalf asked.

“Something has gone terribly wrong,” Bilbo said, looking away with a shaky breath. 

“Well, let us go speak with him. Perhaps we can send a message to Lord Elrond?” Gandalf spoke with a smile, but Bilbo felt the pit of guilt deepen. Gandalf had trusted him. Elrond had trusted him. And unwittingly, all of Middle Earth had relied on him, and he had failed. What was he to do now other than tell Elrond of his failure. He knew better than to hope that Elrond would have some miraculous backup plan. 

  
  


The climb down from the Carrock was excruciating. Fíli and Kíli had offered to carry Bilbo, but he had declined. The pain grounded him. It kept him from focusing on the ring, and Thorin, and the Arkenstone, and all the other problems that lay between them and the mountain. But mostly the ring. Knowledge was a heavy burden to bear alone, and the possibilities of the future were now chokingly endless. The departure of Meneldor with his message had done nothing to make him feel better.

They were moving quickly, sure that the orcs were on their tail. Bilbo sensed the hopelessness and panic in his companions, and wished he could assure them that they would find safety, and soon. As it was, all he could do was be be quick and silent, and carry his own burdens without complaint. To keep his head from swimming. To resist the urge to scream and rage, or collapse and never move again.

“We need a lookout,” Thorin called. “Nori!” Bilbo recognized the rocky pass as the one that he had clambered up to keep an eye on the orcs, the one where he had first glimpsed Beorn.

“No, no, I can do it,” he said, to immediate sounds of protest from the group as a whole. He huffed loudly. “No, really, I’m fine. Please let me do this.”

“Master Baggins, you’re injured and I-” Thorin began.

“Thank you for your concern, but I’m going,” Bilbo said, already sneaking up the path, trying his hardest to not let his injuries hinder his movements, digging his nails into his palms. He would not have the Company thinking he’s some child in need of protection after all he’s done. Just as before, he spotted the orc pack easily, Beorn watching them from the ledge above. He made his way quietly back down the path, anxious faces waiting at the bottom.

“Well, how close is the pack?” Thorin asked, putting his arm out as though he wanted to sweep Bilbo forward with a hand on his back, but thought better of it.

“Too close, couple of leagues, no more. But there is something else,” Bilbo said.

“Have the Orcs picked up our scent?” Dwalin growled, clutching his axe menacingly.

“Not yet, but they will, I’m sure. Gandalf d-”

“Did they see you? They saw you,” Gandalf said, frowning.

“No! I- Gandalf!” Bilbo huffed, indignant.

“Good, what did I tell you? Quiet as a mouse. Excellent burglar material.” 

“Let him speak,” Thorin growled. Bilbo shot him a grateful, yet surprised nod.

“There is another creature out there. A large black bear,” Bilbo said, meeting Gandalf’s eye and hoping to convey his meaning. The dwarves started muttering and swearing to themselves. Of all the luck, first orcs, now a giant bear.

“I say we double back,” Bofur said.

“No, we can’t, the orcs will catch us,” Bilbo said, emphasizing his point by waving his hands around. “There must be somewhere we can take shelter.” He once again looked at Gandalf, who seemed to catch his meaning.

“Quite right, Bilbo. There is a house, not far from here, where we might take refuge.”

“Whose house? Are they friend or foe?” Thorin asked with a suspicious glance at the wizard.

“Neither. He will help us or he will kill us,” Gandalf said gravely. Bilbo wondered if Gandalf really thought this, or if he just took pleasure in the dramatics. Beorn had, after all, taken them in with little fuss Last Time. 

“Do we have a choice?” Thorin asked, grimacing.

“We do not,” Gandalf said as howls split the air. “Run!” Bilbo had not thought this part through. The very first step Bilbo took sent pain jolting through his body. His aching muscles burned and his limbs protested. He could feel his wounds being torn open as he ran, and each breath ripped through his bruised chest and throat like a knife. He was sure he would pass out from the pain before they made it to Beorn’s. He focused on his feet. On lifting his legs high enough that he didn’t crumple on the spot. He was falling behind, he knew that, but he barrelled on. They tore through creeks, flowers, and a sparse forest. Finally, they came to the edge of the trees and saw a wide field with thick yellow grass, and a large house right on the edge. They were so close. Bilbo knew that the orcs had stopped chasing them, but if things were going the same, they still had a massive bear on their flanks. He risked a glance behind him, only for his heart rate to somehow pick up, despite already being so high he worried for his health. Beorn was gaining on them, and quickly. 

“Bilbo, hurry,” Gandalf cried, ushering Bilbo into Beorn’s barn. His head swam as he staggered into the building. Little black dots danced in his vision and he sunk to his knees in a pile of straw. 

“Bilbo?” Ori’s voice was distorted, faint.

“I think I need to lie down,” Bilbo said, collapsing into the straw as his vision went black.

“I say we should leave, sneak out the back way.” Nori’s voice swam on the edge of Bilbo’s consciousness, the following clamour waking him fully. 

“I’m not running from anyone, beast or no,” Bilbo blinked blearily from his spot on the ground, watching as Dwalin and Nori invaded each other’s personal space, tension high. 

“There is no point in arguing,” Gandalf said. “We cannot pass through the wilderland without Beorn’s help. We’ll be hunted down before we ever get to the forest- Ah, Bilbo!” Gandalf said, focusing his piercing blue eyes onto the hobbit. Bilbo shifted into as much of a sitting position as he could, aching body protesting. “I cannot say I am glad to see you awake, but nevertheless-”

“Let me talk to him,” Bilbo said quietly. Gandalf had surely had something else in mind, but he gave the hobbit a strange look.

“Talk to who?,” Gandalf asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Beorn,” Bilbo said, slowly and painfully getting to his feet. “Let me talk to Beorn.” Gandalf looked as though he wanted to protest, but Bilbo fixed him with as much of a pointed look as he could muster

“Very well, if you are sure,” the wizard said. Bilbo nodded firmly in response and had to hide a wince as the movement sent pain shooting through him. “Our host, Beorn, holds no love for dwarves,” Gandalf said loudly. The dwarves turned to look at him, expressions mixed. “We should send our burglar. A hobbit will interest him greatly. Master Baggins will send word to us when it is safe to come out.”

“No,” Thorin said immediately, to the approval of several of the dwarves. “I will not risk the life of our burglar for the comfort of our host.” Thorin’s glare was alarming, directed entirely at the wizard.

“Thorin.” Bilbo looked Thorin in the eye and put his hand tentatively on the dwarf’s arm. Thorin’s face registered shock for only a moment, but he did not recoil. “Please trust me.”

“Very well,” Thorin choked out. “If there is any sign of danger…” Several members of the Company muttered their agreement, some muttering threats under their breath.

“I know,” Bilbo said with a smile. He knew he was in no danger, so Thorin and the dwarves’ worrying was both touching, and slightly suffocating. “If I run into any trouble, I’ll hoot twice like a barn owl, once like a brown owl,” he said, winking at Fíli and Kíli, who gave him confused looks. _Right, that was Last Time,_ Bilbo reminded himself. 

  
  


“What do we have here?” 

Bilbo could not help freezing up at the sheer power of Beorn’s voice as he approached the skin-changer. Beorn was standing shirtless in the warm summer air, chopping wood with an axe that seemed remarkably similar in size to Bilbo himself. Beorn was, according to Bilbo, far too tall. He kept a good distance away, as a precaution, but even still, he knew that should he stand next to Beorn, he would barely clear the top of the man’s knee. Letting out a sigh, Bilbo stopped, planting his feet in an open stance, hands clasped behind his back. 

“Good morning,” Bilbo said as pleasantly as he could. Beorn’s expression did not waver, his suspicious gaze rooting Bilbo to the spot. “I am Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

“What are you?” Beorn asked.

“I am a hobbit of the Shire,” Bilbo said. He steeled himself, then continued. “And we have met before.”

“No we haven’t,” said Beorn, hoisting his axe up with a menacing glare. “I would not forget one such as you.”

“Quite right,” Bilbo said, backing up a little, though still attempting to keep his expression pleasant. “Rather, I have met you, but you have not met me.”

This got Beorn’s attention, and the skin-changer eyed Bilbo with a mixture of mistrust and curiosity. Bilbo remembered Beorn’s fondness for stories quite well.

“Explain yourself to me, halfling,” Beorn said. “And do not dawdle, or you will find just how impatient a man I can be.”

“Of course,” Bilbo said with a tense smile. So far, things were going according to plan. All he had to do was capture Beorn’s attention with his tale, and everything would be back on track. “It all started eighty years ago, on April 27th of this very year…”

  
  


“Very well, little bunny, you have convinced me. Do bring your friends out. All fourteen of them, that is,” Beorn said, having listened quite intently to Bilbo’s story, mostly in silence. Bilbo nodded and smiled. He had managed to explain his story quite well, if he did say so himself. Beorn had followed along with great interest, having never heard a story as good as Bilbo’s. Despite his explanation, Beorn still was not entirely convinced by Bilbo’s rather exceptional tale, vowing to check in on the Company again when the Battle of Five Armies was fated to happen, as, in Beorn’s opinion, that was the only thing that Bilbo could not predict or lie to him about. Even so, Beorn had agreed to letting them stay there while needed, and Bilbo knew they had an ally in the overlarge man. Walking back to the giant door to Beorn’s barn, he swung it open to see thirteen very concerned dwarves, and a rather bemused wizard. 

“Ah, Bilbo,” Gandalf said pleasantly. “I am ever so glad you have decided to join us again. Any longer and I fear that our dear dwarves would have kicked down the door for fear of your safety.”

“No, no,” Bilbo said, waving a hand. “No trouble here. Do come and meet our host.” He ushered the dwarves outside where Beorn was waiting.

* * *

Thorin did not trust easily, he knew that. After years of hardship, scorn, guilt, and grief, he had grown hardened to others. He struggled especially with non-dwarves. Those who had not shared in the grief of losing Erebor, of their kingdom’s fading might and glory. While Thorin still felt the pain and responsibility for the fate of his kind, he also knew that they had suffered similarly. He could understand them, felt a kinship with them that he could not share with others.

When Thorin had first stepped foot in the Shire, with its rolling hills, quaint little homes, and peaceful people, he was torn between disgust and anger. He took in the small people with their soft, clean skin, their rounded bellies and happy smiles and thought them weak. These were people who did not suffer. People who did not go without meals, who went their whole lives without once doing hard work. They knew nothing of pain or loss.

Upon meeting Bilbo Baggins, he hadn’t bothered to hide his thoughts. Bilbo was exactly what he had expected from what little he had seen of the Shire. He was well fed, well groomed, and altogether too excitable. He had seemed so utterly helpless, and genuinely upset at the raucous the dwarves caused. Thorin had known instantly that he wanted nothing to do with the hobbit. He already worried for his sister’s sons, young as they were, he did not need to now look after a helpless halfling as well. 

Somehow, however, the hobbit had grown on him. He wasn’t quite sure when his disdain and become, well, not that. He wasn’t quite sure what he felt for the man. Responsible, and protective, certainly, but there was something else. Was it respect? Surely to some degree. Truthfully, he owed him a life debt, though Thorin was not sure how he felt about that. The hobbit was not living up to any of Thorin’s expectations. A good thing, as none of them would have shown him in a positive light.

Things were quiet at Beorn’s, which meant that Thorin had a lot of time to think. This was not particularly different from usual, however there was a distinct air of safety that the group had not truly felt since their night at Bag End, which meant that Thorin could think without having to keep his guard up. He wasn’t sure if he appreciated this or not, having a tendency to get wrapped up in the “what if’s” and the “should have’s”. He had taken a moment to sit on a bench outside of Beorn’s place early in the morning, hoping to have a quick smoke before anyone else woke up, but he was shaken from his thoughts by the door opening. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry to interrupt,” Bilbo said hastily, pipe in hand, clearly intending to retreat back into the house. 

“It’s no trouble,” Thorin said, gesturing to the empty space next to him on the bench. Bilbo hesitated for a moment before sitting down, as far from Thorin as possible. Bilbo lit his pipe and the two sat in silence for far longer than was comfortable. “I did not take you for an early riser when you have the opportunity to sleep in.”

“I didn’t use to be,” Bilbo said. “I used to be able to sleep through anything. Not so much anymore.” Bilbo said with a shrug. Thorin said nothing. He wished he could see Bilbo’s face, but he dared not turn to look at his companion. 

“Master Baggins?”

“Yes, Thorin?”

“I do not mean to pry,” he said, not looking at the hobbit, suddenly nervous. “But I wish to know, why did you come back? In the goblin tunnels. Why did you come back? You could have gone back to Rivendell, but you did not.” Bilbo was silent for a very long while, and Thorin was suddenly very concerned that he had crossed a line. He busied himself with his pipe, letting his hair hang over his face so the hobbit wouldn’t see the discomfort there. After a good long while of painstaking silence, Bilbo spoke.

“After my parents died, I convinced myself that I was happy,” Bilbo said, face empty of emotion. “Not that they had died, of course, but just in general, I suppose. And I was. Or, content, rather. I didn’t know of any other way to be. But I was alone, and quite lonely, though I honestly didn’t realize. But then I met someone.” Bilbo looked very sad and very small in that moment. With Bilbo’s eyes fixed on his own fumbling hands, Thorin took the opportunity to watch the hobbit. There was a deep grief there. Something that matched the downturn of his lips and the constant furrow in his brow. “I would have stayed with him,” he admitted in a near whisper, and Thorin felt like he was intruding on something incredibly personal. The hobbit was leaning on his legs, staring at his pipe clenched in his fists. “I would have followed him to the end of the world, if he’d asked. But he died. He and his boys.” Bilbo unclenched his hands and the grimace on his face was replaced with a twisted, sad smile. “It was a tragedy, really. They had become my family, and I’d like to think that I could have had a place in theirs.” 

“I’m sorry,” Thorin said, words feeling hollow and wooden on his tongue. Bilbo jumped, as if just remembering Thorin was there.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Bilbo said, seeming to choke on the words. “Going back to Bag End, though, I realized that while it had all the comforts and memories of home, it couldn’t truly be when I was alone in it. Home is where the heart is, or so they say,” Bilbo said with a bitter smile. Thorin couldn’t help but wonder if that meant that Bilbo’s was buried. “Anyways, that is why I came back. I know what it is to wish desperately, even foolishly, for home. Now, that is not in the cards for me, but I would like to help you get yours back, if I can.”

“I apologize for making assumptions about your character,” Thorin said, meaning it with every fiber of his being.

“No need to be sorry,” Bilbo said, although Thorin had the distinct impression that Bilbo appreciated the apology nonetheless. “I would have doubted me too, I should think. I do, in fact. Doubt myself, that is.” Bilbo’s voice trailed off quietly, leaving Thorin feeling strangely nervous. He said nothing, merely hummed and brought his pipe to his lips.

“May I ask,” Thorin began tentatively. He did not know why he felt the need to ask this question, but it came up unbidden anyways. “What was the nature of your relationship?” Bilbo’s mouth fell open in shock and he whipped around to look at Thorin, who tried not to get lost in Bilbo’s wide hazel eyes.

“P-professional,” Bilbo finally choked out, looking away from Thorin’s gaze. That was a lie, and Thorin knew it. Although Thorin had never truly felt it himself, had never allowed himself to even consider the possibility, he saw it plainly in Bilbo’s eyes. He could see it in the hobbit’s face. In the sunken eyes that had haunted Thorin’s thoughts since he had first woken Bilbo from a night terror all those months ago in his very own bed. It made Thorin’s heart ache, and before he knew it, he was sharing something he hadn’t spoken about in years.

“I lost my brother.” 

“You had a brother?” Bilbo asked, voice strained. He was frowning guiltily and started to chew on the tip of his pipe, which was already covered in what looked like fresh teeth marks.

“Frerin,” Thorin said. “He died in battle when we were little more than children. Not long after Erebor fell. The same battle where Balin lost his husband,” Thorin added.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know,” Bilbo said, looking distraught, turning towards Thorin so their knees almost touched. Thorin tried not to focus on their proximity. 

“I didn’t tell you,” Thorin said. Bilbo’s frown deepened. “He was younger than me, and much more-” he fumbled, unsure of what to say.

“Agreeable?” Bilbo suggested with the ghost of a smile. 

“I am agreeable,” Thorin grumbled, but as Bilbo let out a laugh, the first one Thorin had heard from him in a long time, he felt his own laughter spill from his lips. “Kíli reminds me so much of him sometimes,” Thorin admitted. “He was kind and he laughed easily. But he favoured Fíli in looks.”

“You must miss him a great deal,” Bilbo said with a sad smile. Thorin did not answer. Did not want to admit that even still, his heart ached every day, wishing nothing more than to have taken his brother’s place.

“He would have liked you,” Thorin said unthinkingly but honestly. Bilbo’s eyebrows rose a fraction. 

“Oh?”

“He always liked nice things,” Thorin said, wincing at his choice of words.

“You think I’m nice?” Bilbo asked with a hint of sarcasm.

“No. I mean, yes,” Thorin said, unsure of why he was suddenly so hesitant, tripping over words like a child. “That is to say, you can be. When you wish to be.”

“Thank you, I think,” Bilbo said, leaning away from Thorin ever so slightly. Thorin watched their knees grow farther apart rather than look the hobbit in the eyes. 

“Bilbo?”

“Yes, Thorin?”

“Thank you for saving my life.”

“Yes, well, someone had to do it,” Bilbo said, tone lightening slightly. Thorin felt the edges of his mouth lift as if of their own accord. 

“I mean no offence, but I would like you to be taught to defend yourself properly. I will arrange lessons with Dwalin once you have recovered.” Thorin expected Bilbo to be offended, or angry, even, but the hobbit just gave him a very calculating look, chewing on his pipe again.

“Yes, I think that would be a good idea. Something tells me the worst is yet to come.” Bilbo’s expression was pinched, just barely hiding a vast array of emotions that Thorin couldn’t even begin to unpack. “It was never going to be easy, was it?” 

“No. Things do not come easy for us.” He had included Bilbo in the “us” unintentionally, but found that he meant it. Bilbo had irrevocably become part of the “us”, and Thorin would not change that.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh we're done the events of An Unexpected Journey! I can't believe it! 
> 
> Thanks again, for sticking it through. :)
> 
> Also, don't mind my attempt at writing my own riddles... It's much harder than it looks haha!


End file.
